University  of  California  •  Berkeley 
Gift  of 
Dr.  Elizabeth  Torrey  Andrewar 


^Z^'^ 


HEARTBREAK  HOUSE 

GREAT  CATHERINE 

O'FLAHERTY  V.   C, 

THE  INCA  OF  PERUSALEM 

AUGUSTUS  DOES  HIS  BIT 

ANNAJANSKA 


Heartbreak  House,  Great 
Catherine,  and  Playlets  of 
the  War.  By  Bernard  Shaw 


Brentano's  .  New  York 
MCMXIX 


COPYRIGHT,  I919,  BY 
GEORGE  BERNARD  SHAW 

AU  rights  reservtd. 


THE-PLIMFTON-PKBSS 
NOB  WOOD-MASS-U'8'A 


CONTENTS 

PAGE     PAGE 

Heartbreak    House:     a    Fantasia  in 

the    Russian    manner    on    English 

themes 1 

Heartbreak  House  and  Horseback  Hall  ix 

Where  Heartbreak  House   stands  ix 

The  Inhabitants x 

Horseback  Hall xi 

Revolution  on  the  Shelf    ...  xii 

The  Cherry  Orchard xiii 

Nature's  Long  Credits  ....  xiv 

The  Wicked  Half  Century   .    .  xv 

Hypochondria xvii 

Those  who  do  not  know  how  to 
Uve    must    make    a  Merit   of 

Dying xix 

War  DeUrium      xix 

Madness  in  Court xxi 

The  Long  Arm  of  War  ....  xxii 
The  Rabid  Watchdogs  of  Liberty  xxiv 
The  Sufferings  of  the  Sane  .  .  xxvi 
Evil  in  the  Throne  of  Good  xxviii 
Straining  at  the  Gnat  and  swal- 
lowing the  Camel xxix 

D          Little  Minds  and  Big  Battles  .  xxxi 

V 


vi  Heartbreak  House 

PAGE 

The  Dumb   Capables   and   the 

Noisy  Incapables xxxiii 

The  Practical  Business  Men  .  xxxv 
How  the  Fools  shouted  the  Wise 

Men  down xxxv 

The  Mad  Election xxxvii 

The  Yahoo  and  the  Angry  Ape  xxxviii 

Plague  on  Both  your  Houses!  xl 

How  the  Theatre  fared  ....  xli 

The  Soldier  at  the  Theatre  Front  xlii 

Commerce  in  the  Theatre     .    .  xlv 

Unser  Shakespeare xlv 

The  Higher  Drama  put  out  of 

Action xlvi 

Church  and  Theatre xlviii 

The  Next  Phase 1 

The  Ephemeral  Thrones  and  the 

Eternal  Theatre liii 

How  War  muzzles  the  Dramatic 

Poet liv 

Great      Catherine      (Whom      Glory 

Still  Adores) 

OTlaherty     V.  C.:       a     Recruiting 

Pamphlet 

The  Inca  of  Perusalem:    an  Almost 

Historical  Comedietta 

Augustus    Does    His    Bit:     a    True- 

to-Life  Farce       

Annajanska,  The  Bolshevik  Empress: 

a  Revolutionary  Romancelet   .    .    . 


HEARTBREAK  HOUSE 

XXVI 

1913-16 


HEARTBREAK  HOUSE  AND 
HORSEBACK  HALL 

Where  Heartbreak  House  stands 

Heartbreak  House  is  not  merely  the  name  of  the 
play  which  follows  this  preface.  It  is  cultured,  leisured 
Europe  before  the  war.  When  the  play  was  begun  not 
a  shot  had  been  fired;  and  only  the  professional 
diplomatists  and  the  very  few  amateurs  whose  hobby 
is  foreign  poUcy  even  knew  that  the  guns  were  loaded. 
A  Russian  playwright,  Tchekov,  had  produced  four 
fascinating  dramatic  studies  of  Heartbreak  House, 
of  which  three,  The  Cherry  Orchard,  Uncle  Vanya, 
and  The  Seagull,  had  been  performed  in  England. 
Tolstoy,  in  his  Fruits  of  Enlightenment,  had  shown  us 
through  it  in  his  most  ferociously  contemptuous 
manner.  Tolstoy  did  not  waste  any  sympathy  on 
it:  it  was  to  him  the  house  in  which  Europe  was 
stifling  its  soul;  and  he  knew  that  our  utter  enerva- 
tion and  futilization  in  that  overheated  drawing- 
room  atmosphere  was  delivering  the  world  over  to 
the  control  of  ignorant  and  soulless  cunning  and 
energy,  with  the  frightful  consequences  which  have 
now  overtaken  it.  Tolstoy  was  no  pessimist:  he 
was  not  disposed  to  leave  the  house  standing  if  he 
could  bring  it  down  about  the  ears  of  its  pretty  and 
amiable   voluptuaries;    and   he   wielded   the   pickaxe 

iz 


X  Heartbreak  House 

with  a  will.  He  treated  the  case  of  the  inmates  as 
one  of  opium  poisoning,  to  be  dealt  with  by  seizing 
the  patients  roughly  and  exercising  them  violently 
until  they  were  broad  awake.  Tchekov,  more  of  a 
fatalist,  had  no  faith  in  these  charming  people  extricat- 
ing themselves.  They  would,  he  thought,  be  sold  up 
and  sent  adrift  by  the  bailiffs;  and  he  therefore  had 
no  scruple  in  exploiting  and  even  flattering  their 
charm. 


The  Inhabitants 

Tchekov's  plays,  being  less  lucrative  than  swings 
and  roundabouts,  got  no  further  in  England,  where 
theatres  are  only  ordinary  commercial  affairs,  than  a 
couple  of  performances  by  the  Stage  Society.  We 
stared  and  said,  "How  Russian!"  They  did  not 
strike  me  in  that  way.  Just  as  Ibsen's  intensely 
Norwegian  plays  exactly  fitted  every  middle  and  pro- 
fessional class  suburb  in  Europe,  these  intensely 
Russian  plays  fitted  all  the  country  houses  in  Europe 
in  which  the  pleasures  of  music,  art,  literature,  and 
the  theatre  had  supplanted  hunting,  shooting,  fishing, 
flirting,  eating,  and  drinking.  The  same  nice  people, 
the  same  utter  futility.  The  nice  people  could  read; 
some  of  them  could  write;  and  they  were  the  sole 
repositories  of  culture  who  had  social  opportunities 
of  contact  with  our  politicians,  administrators,  and 
newspaper  proprietors,  or  any  chance  of  sharing  or 
influencing  their  activities.  But  they  shrank  from 
that  contact.  They  hated  politics.  They  did  not 
wish  to  realize  Utopia  for  the  common  people:  they 
wished  to  realize  their  favorite  fictions  and  poems 
in  their  own  lives;  and,  when  they  could,  they  Hved 
without  scruple  on  incomes  which  they  did  nothing 


Heartbreak  House  xi 

to  earn.  The  women  in  their  girlhood  made  them- 
selves look  like  variety  theatre  stars,  and  settled  down 
later  into  the  types  of  beauty  imagined  by  the  pre- 
vious generation  of  painters.  They  took  the  only 
part  of  our  society  in  which  there  was  leisure  for  high 
culture,  and  made  it  an  economic,  political,  and,  as 
far  as  practicable,  a  moral  vacuum;  and  as  Nature, 
abhorring  the  vacuum,  immediately  filled  it  up  with 
sex  and  with  all  sorts  of  refined  pleasures,  it  was  a 
very  delightful  place  at  its  best  for  moments  of  relaxa- 
tion. In  other  moments  it  was  disastrous.  For 
prime  ministers  and  their  like,  it  was  a  veritable 
Capua. 


Horseback  Hall 

But  where  were  our  front  benchers  to  nest  if  not 
here?  The  alternative  to  Heartbreak  House  was 
Horseback  Hall,  consisting  of  a  prison  for  horses  with 
an  annex  for  the  ladies  and  gentlemen  who  rode  them, 
hunted  them,  talked  about  them,  bought  them  and 
sold  them,  and  gave  nine-tenths  of  their  lives  to  them, 
dividing  the  other  tenth  between  charity,  churchgoing 
(as  a  substitute  for  religion),  and  conservative  election- 
eering (as  a  substitute  for  politics).  It  is  true  that  the 
two  establishments  got  mixed  at  the  edges.  Exiles  from 
the  library,  the  music  room,  and  the  picture  gallery 
would  be  found  languishing  among  the  stables,  misera- 
bly discontented;  and  hardy  horsewomen  who  slept  at 
the  first  chord  of  Schumann  were  born,  horribly  mis- 
placed, into  the  garden  of  Klingsor;  but  sometimes 
one  came  upon  horsebreakers  and  heartbreakers  who 
could  make  the  best  of  both  worlds.  As  a  rule,  how- 
ever, the  two  were  apart  and  knew  little  of  one  another; 
so  the  prime  minister  folk  had  to  choose  between  bar- 


xii  Heartbreak  House 

barism  and  Capua.  And  of  the  two  atmospheres  it 
is  hard  to  say  which  was  the  more  fatal  to  statesman- 
ship. 

Revolution  on  the  Shelf 

Heartbreak  House  was  quite  familiar  with  revolu- 
tionary ideas  on  paper.  It  aimed  at  being  advanced 
and  freethinking,  and  hardly  ever  went  to  church  or 
kept  the  Sabbath  except  by  a  Httle  extra  fun  at  week- 
ends. When  you  spent  a  Friday  to  Tuesday  in  it 
you  found  on  the  shelf  in  your  bedroom  not  only  the 
books  of  poets  and  novelists,  but  of  revolutionary 
biologists  and  even  economists.  Without  at  least  a 
few  plays  by  myself  and  Mr  Granville  Barker,  and  a 
few  stories  by  Mr  H.  G.  Wells,  Mr  Arnold  Bennett, 
and  Mr  John  Galsworthy,  the  house  would  have  been 
out  of  the  movement.  You  would  find  Blake  among 
the  poets,  and  beside  him  Bergson,  Butler,  Scott 
Haldane,  the  poems  of  Meredith  and  Thomas  Hardy, 
and,  generally  speaking,  all  the  hterary  implements  for 
forming  the  mind  of  the  perfect  modern  Socialist  and 
Creative  Evolutionist.  It  was  a  curious  experience 
to  spend  Sunday  in  dipping  into  these  books,  and  on 
Monday  morning  to  read  in  the  daily  paper  that  the 
country  had  just  been  brought  to  the  verge  of  anarchy 
because  a  new  Home  Secretary  or  chief  of  police  with- 
out an  idea  in  his  head  that  his  great-grandmother 
might  not  have  had  to  apologize  for,  had  refused  to 
"recognize"  some  powerful  Trade  Union,  just  as  a 
gondola  might  refuse  to  recognize  a  20,000-ton  liner. 

In  short,  power  and  culture  were  in  separate  com- 
partments. The  barbarians  were  not  only  literally 
in  the  saddle,  but  on  the  front  bench  in  the  House  of 
Commons,  with  nobody  to  correct  their  incredible 
ignorance  of  modem  thought  and  poUtical  science  but 


Heartbreak  House  xiii 

upstarts  from  the  counting-house,  who  had  spent 
their  Uves  furnishing  their  pockets  instead  of  their 
minds.  Both,  however,  were  practised  in  dealrug 
with  money  and  with  men,  as  far  as  acquiring  the 
one  and  exploiting  the  other  went;  and  although  this  is 
as  undesirable  an  expertness  as  that  of  the  medieval 
robber  baron,  it  qualifies  men  to  keep  an  estate  or  a 
business  going  in  its  old  routine  without  necessarily 
understanding  it,  just  as  Bond  Street  tradesmen  and 
domestic  servants  keep  fashionable  society  going  with- 
out any  instruction  in  sociology. 


The  Cherry  Orchard 

The  Heartbreak  people  neither  could  nor  would  do 
anything  of  the  sort.  With  their  heads  as  full  of  the 
Anticipations  of  Mr  H.  G.  Wells  as  the  heads  of  oiu* 
actual  rulers  were  empty  even  of  the  anticipations  of 
Erasmus  or  Sir  Thomas  More,  they  refused  the  drudgery 
of  politics,  and  would  have  made  a  very  poor  job  of 
it  &  they  had  changed  their  minds.  Not  that  they 
would  have  been  allowed  to  meddle  anyhow,  as  only 
through  the  accident  of  being  a.  hereditary  peer  can 
anyone  in  these  days  of  Votes  for  Everybody  get  into 
parliament  if  handicapped  by  a  serious  modern  cul- 
tural equipment;  but  if  they  had,  their  habit  of  Uving 
in  a  vacuum  would  have  left  them  helpless  and  ineffec- 
tive in  public  affairs.  Even  in  private  life  they  were 
often  helpless  wasters  of  their  inheritance,  Hke  the 
people  in  Tchekov's  Cherry  Orchard.  Even  those 
who  lived  within  their  incomes  were  really  kept  going 
by  their  solicitors  and  agents,  being  unable  to  manage 
an  estate  or  run  a  business  without  continual  prompt- 
ing from  those  who  have  to  learn  how  to  do  such  things 
or  starve. 


xiv  Heartbreak  House 

From  what  is  called  Democracy  no  corrective  to 
this  state  of  things  could  be  hoped.  It  is  said  that 
every  people  has  the  Government  it  deserves.  It  is 
more  to  the  point  that  every  Government  has  the 
electorate  it  deserves;  for  the  orators  of  the  front 
bench  can  edify  or  debauch  an  ignorant  electorate  at 
will.  Thus  our  democracy  moves  in  a  vicious  circle 
of  reciprocal  worthiness  and  unworthiness. 


Nature's  Long  Credits 

Nature's  way  of  dealing  with  unhealthy  conditions 
is  unfortunately  not  one  that  compels  us  to  conduct  a 
solvent  hygiene  on  a  cash  basis.  She  demoralizes 
us  with  long  credits  and  reckless  overdrafts,  and  then 
pulls  us  up  cruelly  with  catastrophic  bankruptcies. 
Take,  for  example,  common  domestic  sanitation.  A 
whole  city  generation  may  neglect  it  utterly  and 
scandalously,  if  not  with  absolute  impunity,  yet  with- 
out any  evil  consequences  that  anyone  thinks  of 
tracing  to  it.  In  a  hospital  two  generations  of  medical 
students  may  tolerate  dirt  and  carelessness,  and  then 
go  out  into  general  practice  to  spread  the  doctrine 
that  fresh  air  is  a  fad,  and  sanitation  an  imposture 
set  up  to  make  profits  for  plumbers.  Then  suddenly 
Nature  takes  her  revenge.  She  strikes  at  the  city 
with  a  pestilence  and  at  the  hospital  with  an  epidemic 
of  hospital  gangrene,  slaughtering  right  and  left  until 
the  innocent  young  have  paid  for  the  guilty  old,  and 
the  account  is  balanced.  And  then  she  goes  to  sleep 
again  and  gives  another  period  of  credit,  with  the 
same  result. 

This  is  what  has  just  happened  in  our  political 
hygiene.  Political  science  has  been  as  recklessly 
neglected  by  Governments  and  electorates  during  my 


Heartbreak  House  xv 

lifetime  as  sanitary  science  was  in  the  days  of  Charles 
the  Second.  In  international  relations  diplomacy  has 
been  a  boyishly  lawless  affair  of  family  intrigues,  com- 
mercial and  territorial  brigandage,  torpors  of  pseudo- 
goodnature  produced  by  laziness  and  spasms  of 
ferocious  activity  produced  by  terror.  But  in  these 
islands  we  muddled  through.  Nature  gave  us  a 
longer  credit  than  she  gave  to  France  or  Germany  or 
Russia.  To  British  centenarians  who  died  in  their 
beds  in  1914,  any  dread  of  having  to  hide  underground 
in  London  from  the  shells  of  an  enemy  seemed  more 
remote  and  fantastic  than  a  dread  of  the  appearance 
of  a  colony  of  cobras  and  rattlesnakes  in  Kensington 
Gardens.  In  the  prophetic  works  of  Charles  Dickens 
we  were  warned  against  many  evils  which  have  since 
come  to  pass;  but  of  the  evil  of  being  slaughtered  by 
a  foreign  foe  on  our  own  doorsteps  there  was  no  shadow. 
Nature  gave  us  a  very  long  credit;  and  we  abused  it  to 
the  utmost.  But  when  she  struck  at  last  she  struck 
with  a  vengeance.  For  four  years  she  smote  our  first- 
born and  heaped  on  us  plagues  of  which  Egypt  never 
dreamed.  They  were  all  as  preventible  as  the  great 
Plague  of  London,  and  came  solely  because  they  had 
not  been  prevented.  They  were  not  undone  by  win- 
ning the  war.  The  earth  is  still  bursting  with  the  dead 
bodies  of  the  victors. 


The  Wicked  Half  Century 

It  is  dijQ&cult  to  say  whether  indifference  and  neglect 
are  worse  than  false  doctrine;  but  Heartbreak  House 
and  Horseback  Hall  unfortunately  suffered  from  both. 
For  half  a  century  before  the  war  civilization  had  been 
going  to  the  devil  very  precipitately  imder  the  influ- 


xvi  Heartbreak  House 

ence  of  a  pseudo-science  as  disastrous  as  the  blackest 
Calvinism.  Calvinism  taught  that  as  we  are  predestin- 
ately  saved  or  damned,  nothing  that  we  can  do  can 
alter  our  destiny.  Still,  as  Calvinism  gave  the  individual 
no  clue  as  to  whether  he  had  drawn  a  lucky  number  or 
an  unlucky  one,  it  left  him  a  fairly  strong  interest  in 
encouraging  his  hopes  of  salvation  and  allaying  his 
fear  of  damnation  by  behaving  as  one  of  the  elect 
might  be  expected  to  behave  rather  than  as  one  of 
the  reprobate.  But  in  the  middle  of  the  nineteenth 
century  naturalists  and  physicists  assured  the  world, 
in  the  name  of  Science,  that  salvation  and  damnation 
are  all  nonsense,  and  that  predestination  is  the  cen- 
tral truth  of  religion,  inasmuch  as  human  beings  are 
produced  by  their  environment,  their  sins  and  good 
deeds  being  only  a  series  of  chemical  and  mechanical 
reactions  over  which  they  have  no  control.  Such  fig- 
ments as  mind,  choice,  purpose,  conscience,  will,  and 
so  forth,  are,  they  taught,  mere  illusions,  produced  be- 
cause they  are  useful  in  the  continual  struggle  of  the 
human  machine  to  maintain  its  environment  in  a  favor- 
able condition,  a  process  incidentally  involving  the 
ruthless  destruction  or  subjection  of  its  competitors 
for  the  supply  (assumed  to  be  limited)  of  subsistence 
available.  We  taught  Prussia  this  reUgion;  and 
Prussia  bettered  our  instruction  so  effectively  that  we 
presently  found  ourselves  confronted  with  the  neces- 
sity of  destroying  Prussia  to  prevent  Prussia  destroy- 
ing us.  And  that  has  just  ended  in  each  destroying 
the  other  to  an  extent  doubtfully  reparable  in  our 
time. 

It  may  be  asked  how  so  imbecile  and  dangerous  a 
creed  ever  came  to  be  accepted  by  intelligent  beings. 
I  will  answer  that  question  more  fully  in  my  next 
volume  of  plays,  which  will  be  entirely  devoted  to 
the  subject.    For  the  present  I  will  only  say  that  there 


Heartbreak  House  xvii 

were  better  reasons  than  the  obvious  one  that  such 
sham  science  as  this  opened  a  scientific  career  to  very- 
stupid  men,  and  all  the  other  careers  to  shameless 
rascals,  provided  they  were  industrious  enough.  It  is 
true  that  this  motive  operated  very  powerfully;  but 
when  the  new  departure  in  scientific  doctrine  which 
is  associated  with  the  name  of  the  great  naturalist 
Charles  Darwin  began,  it  was  not  only  a  reaction 
against  a  barbarous  pseudo-evangelical  teleology  in- 
tolerably obstructive  to  all  scientific  progress,  but  was 
accompanied,  as  it  happened,  by  discoveries  of  extraor- 
dinary interest  in  physics,  chemistry,  and  that  life- 
less method  of  evolution  which  its  investigators  called 
Natural  Selection.  Howbeit,  there  was  only  one 
result  possible  in  the  ethical  sphere,  and  that  was  the 
banishment  of  conscience  from  human  affairs,  or,  as 
Samuel  Butler  vehenaently  put  it,  "of  mind  from  the 
universe." 


Hypochondria 

Now  Heartbreak  House,  with  Butler  and  Bergson 
and  Scott  Haldane  alongside  Blake  and  the  other  major 
poets  on  its  shelves  (to  say  nothing  of  Wagner  and 
the  tone  poets),  was  not  so  completely  blinded  by  the 
doltish  materialism  of  the  laboratories  as  the  uncul- 
tured world  outside.  But  being  an  idle  house  it  was  a 
hypochondriacal  house,  always  running  after  cures. 
It  would  stop  eating  meat,  not  on  valid  Shelley  an 
grounds,  but  in  order  to  get  rid  of  a  bogey  called  Uric 
Acid;  and  it  would  actually  let  you  pull  all  its  teeth 
out  to  exorcise  another  demon  named  Pyorrhea.  It 
was  superstitious,  and  addicted  to  table-rapping,  ma- 
terialization seances,  clairvoyance,  palmistry,  crystal- 
gazing  and  the  like  to  such  an  extent  that  it  may  be 


xviii  Heartbreak  House 

doubted  whether  ever  before  in  the  history  of  the 
world  did  soothsayers,  astrologers,  and  unregistered 
therapeutic  specialists  of  all  sorts  flourish  as  they  did 
during  this  half  century  of  the  drift  to  the  abyss.  The 
registered  doctors  and  surgeons  were  hard  put  to  it  to 
compete  with  the  unregistered.  They  were  not  clever 
enough  to  appeal  to  the  imagination  and  sociability  of 
the  Heartbreakers  by  the  arts  of  the  actor,  the  orator, 
the  poet,  the  winning  conversationalist.  They  had 
to  fall  back  coarsely  on  the  terror  of  infection  and 
death.  They  prescribed  inoculations  and  operations. 
Whatever  part  of  a  human  being  could  be  cut  out  with- 
out necessarily  killing  him  they  cut  out;  and  he  often 
died  (unnecessarily  of  course)  in  consequence.  From 
such  trifles  as  uvulas  and  tonsils  they  went  on  to  ovaries 
and  appendices  until  at  last  no  one's  inside  was  safe. 
They  explained  that  the  human  intestine  was  too  long, 
and  that  nothing  could  make  a  child  of  Adam  healthy 
except  short  circuiting  the  pylorus  by  cutting  a  length 
out  of  the  lower  intestine  and  fastening  it  directly 
to  the  stomach.  As  their  mechanist  theory  taught 
them  that  medicine  was  the  business  of  the  chemist's 
laboratory,  and  surgery  of  the  carpenter's  shop,  and 
also  that  Science  (by  which  they  meant  their  practices) 
was  so  important  that  no  consideration  for  the  interests 
of  any  individual  creature,  whether  frog  or  philosopher, 
much  less  the  vulgar  commonplaces  of  sentimental 
ethics,  could  weigh  for  a  moment  against  the  remotest 
off-chance  of  an  addition  to  the  body  of  scientific 
knowledge,  they  operated  and  vivisected  and  inocu- 
lated and  Hed  on  a  stupendous  scale,  clamoring  for  and 
actually  acquiring  such  legal  powers  over  the  bodies 
of  their  fellow-citizens  as  neither  king,  pope,  nor  parlia- 
ment dare  ever  have  claimed.  The  Inquisition  itself 
was  a  Liberal  institution  compared  to  the  General 
Medical  Council. 


Heartbreak  House  xix 

Those  who  do  not  know  how  to  live 
must  make  a  Merit  of  Dying 

Heartbreak  House  was  far  too  lazy  and  shallow  to 
extricate  itself  from  this  palace  of  evil  enchantment. 
It  rhapsodized  about  love;  but  it  believed  in  cruelty. 
It  was  afraid  of  the  cruel  people;  and  it  saw  that  cruelty 
was  at  least  effective.  Cruelty  did  things  that  made 
money,  whereas  Love  did  nothing  but  prove  the  sound- 
ness of  Larochefoucauld's  saying  that  very  few  people 
would  fall  in  love  if  they  had  never  read  about  it. 
Heartbreak  House,  in  short,  did  not  know  how  to  live, 
at  which  point  all  that  was  left  to  it  was  the  boast 
that  at  least  it  knew  how  to  die:  a  melancholy  ac- 
complishment which  the  outbreak  of  war  presently 
gave  it  practically  unlimited  opportunities  of  display- 
ing. Thus  were  the  firstborn  of  Heartbreak  House 
smitten;  and  the  young,  the  innocent,  the  hopeful 
expiated  the  folly  and  worthlessness  of  their  elders. 


War  Delirium 

Only  those  who  have  lived  through  a  first-rate  war, 
not  in  the  field,  but  at  home,  and  kept  their  heads, 
can  possibly  understand  the  bitterness  of  Shakespeare 
and  Swift,  who  both  went  through  this  experience. 
The  horror  of  Peer  Gynt  in  the  madhouse,  when  the 
lunatics,  exalted  by  illusions  of  splendid  talent  and 
visions  of  a  dawning  millennium,  crowned  him  as  their 
emperor,  was  tame  in  comparison.  I  do  not  know 
whether  anyone  really  kept  his  head  completely  except 
those  who  had  to  keep  it  because  they  had  to  conduct 
the  war  at  first  hand.  I  should  not  have  kept  my  own 
(as  far  as  I  did  keep  it)  if  I  had  not  at  once  understood 


XX  Heartbreak  House 

that  -as  a  scribe  and  speaker  I  too  was  under  the  most 
serious  public  obligation  to  keep  my  grip  on  realities; 
but  this  did  not  save  me  from  a  considerable  degree 
of  hyperaesthesia.  There  were  of  course  some  happy 
people  to  whom  the  war  meant  nothing:  all  political 
and  general  matters  lying  outside  their  little  circle  of 
interest.  But  the  ordinary  war-conscious  civilian  went 
mad,  the  main  symptom  being  a  conviction  that  the 
whole  order  of  nature  had  been  reversed.  All  foods, 
he  felt,  must  now  be  adulterated.  All  schools  must 
be  closed.  No  advertisements  must  be  sent  to  the 
newspapers,  of  which  new  editions  must  appear  and 
be  bought  up  every  ten  minutes.  Travelling  must  be 
stopped,  or,  that  being  impossible,  greatly  hindered. 
All  pretences  about  fine  art  and  culture  and  the  like 
must  be  flung  off  as  an  intolerable  affectation;  and  the 
picture  galleries  and  museums  and  schools  at  once 
occupied  by  war  workers.  The  British  Museum  itself 
was  saved  only  by  a  hair's  breadth.  The  sincerity  of 
all  this,  and  of  much  more  which  would  not  be  believed 
if  I  chronicled  it,  may  be  established  by  one  conclusive 
instance  of  the  general  craziness.  Men  were  seized 
with  the  illusion  that  they  could  win  the  war  by  giving 
away  money.  And  they  not  only  subscribed  millions 
to  Funds  of  all  sorts  with  no  discoverable  object, 
and  to  ridiculous  voluntary  organizations  for  doing 
what  was  plainly  the  business  of  the  civil  and  military 
authorities,  but  actually  handed  out  money  to  any 
thief  in  the  street  who  had  the  presence  of  mind  to 
pretend  that  he  (or  she)  was  "collecting"  it  for  the 
annihilation  of  the  enemy.  Swindlers  were  emboldened 
to  take  oflfices;  label  themselves  Anti-Enemy  Leagues; 
and  simply  pocket  the  money  that  was  heaped  on  them. 
Attractively  dressed  young  women  found  that  they 
had  nothing  to  do  but  parade  the  streets,  collecting- 
box  in  hand,  and  Uve  gloriously  on  the  profits.    Many 


Heartbreak  House  xxi 

months  elapsed  before,  as  a  first  sign  of  returning 
sanity,  the  police  swept  an  Anti-Enemy  secretary  into 
prison  pour  encourager  les  autres,  and  the  passionate 
penny  collecting  of  the  Flag  Days  was  brought  under 
some  sort  of  regulation. 


Madness  in  Court 

The  demoralization  did  not  spare  the  Law  Courts. 
Soldiers  were  acquitted,  even  on  fully  proved  indict- 
ments for  wilful  murder,  until  at  last  the  judges  and 
magistrates  had  to  announce  that  what  was  called 
the  Unwritten  Law,  which  meant  simply  that  a  soldier 
could  do  what  he  liked  with  impunity  in  civil  life,  was 
not  the  law  of  the  land,  and  that  a  Victoria  Cross  did 
not  carry  with  it  a  perpetual  plenary  indulgence.  Un- 
fortimately  the  insanity  of  the  juries  and  magistrates 
did  not  always  manifest  itself  in  indulgence.  No 
person  unlucl^  enough  to  be  charged  with  any  sort 
of  conduct,  however  reasonable  and  salutary,  that  did 
not  smack  of  war  delirium,  had  the  slightest  chance  of 
acquittal.  There  were  in  the  country,  too,  a  certain 
number  of  people  who  had  conscientious  objections 
to  war  as  criminal  or  unchristian.  The  Act  of  Parlia- 
ment introducing  Compulsory  Military  Service  thought- 
lessly exempted  these  persons,  merely  requiring  them 
to  prove  the  genuineness  of  their  convictions.  Those 
who  did  so  were  very  ill-advised  from  the  point  of  view 
of  their  own  personal  interest;  for  they  were  persecuted 
with  savage  logicality  in  spite  of  the  law;  whilst  those 
who  made  no  pretence  of  having  any  objection  to  war 
at  all,  and  had  not  only  had  military  training  in  Officers' 
Training  Corps,  but  had  proclaimed  on  public  occa- 
sions that  they  were  perfectly  ready  to  engage  in  civil 
war  on  behalf  of  their  political  opinions,  were  allowed 


xxii  Heartbreak  House 

the  benefit  of  the  Act  on  the  ground  that  they  did  not 
approve  of  this  particular  war.  For  the  Christians 
there  was  no  mercy.  In  cases  where  the  evidence  as 
to  their  being  killed  by  ill  treatment  was  so  imequivocal 
that  the  verdict  would  certainly  have  been  one  of  wil- 
ful murder  had  the  prejudice  of  the  coroner's  jury 
been  on  the  other  side,  their  tormentors  were  gra- 
tuitously declared  to  be  blameless.  There  was  only 
one  virtue,  pugnacity:  only  one  vice,  pacifism.  That 
is  an  essential  condition  of  war;  but  the  Government 
had  not  the  courage  to  legislate  accordingly;  and  its 
law  was  set  aside  for  Lynch  law. 

The  climax  of  legal  lawlessness  was  reached  in 
France.  The  greatest  Socialist  statesman  in  Europe, 
Jaures,  was  shot  and  killed  by  a  gentleman  who  re- 
sented his  efforts  to  avert  the  war.  M.  Clemenceau 
was  shot  by  another  gentleman  of  less  popular  opin- 
ions, and  happily  came  off  no  worse  than  having  to 
spend  a  precautionary  couple  of  days  in  bed.  The 
slayer  of  Jaures  was  recklessly  acquitted:  the  would-be 
slayer  of  M.  Clemenceau  was  carefully  found  guilty. 
There  is  no  reason  to  doubt  that  the  same  thing  would 
have  happened  in  England  if  the  war  had  begun  with 
a  successful  attempt  to  assassinate  Keir  Hardie,  and 
ended  with  an  unsuccessful  one  to  assassinate  Mr 
Lloyd  George. 


The  Long  Arm  of  War 

The  pestilence  which  is  the  usual  accompaniment  of 
war  was  called  influenza.  Whether  it  was  really  a 
war  pestilence  or  not  was  made  doubtful  by  the  fact 
that  it  did  its  worst  in  places  remote  from  the  battle- 
fields, notably  on  the  west  coast  of  North  America 
and  in  Lidia.     But  the  moral  pestilence,  which  was 


Heartbreak  House  xxiii 

unquestionably  a  war  pestilence,  reproduced  this 
phenomenon.  One  would  have  supposed  that  the 
war  fever  would  have  raged  most  furiously  in  the 
countries  actually  under  fire,  and  that  the  others 
would  be  more  reasonable.  Belgium  and  Flanders, 
where  over  large  districts  literally  not  one  stone  was 
left  upon  another  as  the  opposed  armies  drove  each 
other  back  and  forward  over  it  after  terrific  preliminary 
bombardments,  might  have  been  pardoned  for  reliev- 
ing their  feelings  more  emphatically  than  by  shrug- 
ging their  shoulders  and  saying,  "C'est  la  guerre." 
England,  inviolate  for  so  many  centuries  that  the  swoop 
of  war  on  her  homesteads  had  long  ceased  to  be  more 
credible  than  a  return  of  the  Flood,  could  hardly  be 
expected  to  keep  her  temper  sweet  when  she  knew  at 
last  what  it  was  to  hide  in  cellars  and  underground 
railway  stations,  or  lie  quaking  in  bed,  whilst  bombs 
crashed,  houses  crumbled,  and  aircraft  guns  distributed 
shrapnel  on  friend  and  foe  alike  until  certain  shop 
windows  in  London,  formerly  full  of  fashionable  hats, 
were  filled  with  steel  helmets.  Slain  and  mutilated 
women  and  children,  and  burnt  and  wrecked  dwellings, 
excuse  a  good  deal  of  violent  language,  and  produce  a 
wrath  on  which  many  suns  go  down  before  it  is  ap- 
peased. Yet  it  was  in  the  United  States  of  America, 
where  nobody  slept  the  worse  for  the  war,  that  the 
war  fever  went  beyond  all  sense  and  reason.  In 
European  Courts  there  was  vindictive  illegality:  in 
American  Courts  there  was  raving  lunacy.  It  is  not 
for  me  to  chronicle  the  extravagances  of  an  Ally:  let 
some  candid  American  do  that.  I  can  only  say  that 
to  us  sitting  in  our  gardens  in  England,  with  the 
guns  in  France  making  themselves  felt  by  a  throb 
in  the  air  as  unmistakeable  as  an  audible  sound,  or 
with  tightening  hearts  studying  the  phases  of  the 
moon  in  London  in  their  bearing  on  the  chances  whether 


XXIV  Heartbreak  House 

our  houses  would  be  standing  or  ourselves  alive  next 
morning,  the  newspaper  accounts  of  the  sentences 
American  Courts  were  passing  on  young  girls  and  old 
men  alike  for  the  expression  of  opinions  which  were 
being  uttered  amid  thundering  applause  before  huge 
audiences  in  England,  and  the  more  private  records 
of  the  methods  by  which  the  American  War  Loans 
were  raised,  were  so  amazing  that  they  put  the  guns 
and  the  possibilities  of  a  raid  clean  out  of  our  heads 
for  the  moment. 


The  Rabid  Watchdogs  of  Liberty 

Not  content  with  these  rancorous  abuses  of  the 
existing  law,  the  war  maniacs  made  a  frantic  rush  to 
abolish  all  constitutional  guarantees  of  liberty  and 
well-being.  The  ordinary  law  was  superseded  by  Acts 
under  which  newspapers  were  seized  and  their  print- 
ing machinery  destroyed  by  simple  police  raids  a  la 
Russe,  and  persons  arrested  and  shot  without  any 
pretence  of  trial  by  jury  or  publicity  of  procedure 
or  evidence.  Though  it  was  urgently  necessary  that 
production  should  be  increased  by  the  most  scientific 
organization  and  economy  of  labor,  and  though  no 
fact  was  better  established  than  that  excessive  dura- 
tion and  intensity  of  toil  reduces  production  heavily 
instead  of  increasing  it,  the  factory  laws  were  sus- 
pended, and  men  and  women  recklessly  over-worked 
until  the  loss  of  their  elBBciency  became  too  glaring 
to  be  ignored.  Remonstrances  and  warnings  were 
met  either  with  an  accusation  of  pro-Germanism  or 
the  formula,  "Remember  that  we  are  at  war  now." 
I  have  said  that  men  assumed  that  war  had  reversed 
the  order  of  nature,  and  that  all  was  lost  unless  we 
did  the  exact  opposite  of  everything  we  had  found 


Heartbreak  House  xxv 

necessary  and  beneficial  in  peace.  But  the  truth  was 
worse  than  that.  The  war  did  not  change  men's 
minds  in  any  such  impossible  way.  What  really  hap- 
pened was  that  the  impact  of  physical  death  and 
destruction,  the  one  reality  that  every  fool  can  un- 
derstand, tore  off  the  masks  of  education,  art,  science 
and  religion  from  our  ignorance  and  barbarism,  and 
left  us  glorying  grotesquely  in  the  licence  suddenly 
accorded  to  our  vilest  passions  and  most  abject  terrors. 
Ever  since  Thucydides  wrote  his  history,  it  has  been 
on  record  that  when  the  angel  of  death  sounds  his 
trumpet  the  pretences  of  civilization  are  blown  from 
men's  heads  into  the  mud  like  hats  in  a  gust  of  wind. 
But  when  this  scripture  was  fulfilled  among  us,  the 
shock  was  not  the  less  appalling  because  a  few  stu- 
dents of  Greek  history  were  not  surprised  by  it.  In- 
deed these  students  threw  themselves  into  the  orgy  as 
shamelessly  as  the  illiterate.  The  Christian  priest 
joining  in  the  war  dance  without  even  throwing  off 
his  cassock  first,  and  the  respectable  school  governor 
expelling  the  German  professor  with  insult  and  bodily 
violence,  and  declaring  that  no  English  child  should 
ever  again  be  taught  the  language  of  Luther  and 
Goethe,  were  kept  in  countenance  by  the  most  impu- 
dent repudiations  of  every  decency  of  civilization  and 
every  lesson  of  political  experience  on  the  part  of  the 
very  persons  who,  as  university  professors,  historians, 
philosophers,  and  men  of  science,  were  the  accredited 
custodians  of  culture.  It  was  crudely  natural,  and 
perhaps  necessary  for  recruiting  purposes,  that  Ger- 
man militarism  and  German  dynastic  ambition  should 
be  painted  by  journalists  and  recruiters  in  black  and 
red  as  European  dangers  (as  in  fact  they  are),  leaving 
it  to  be  inferred  that  our  own  militarism  and  our  own 
political  constitution  are  millennially  democratic  (which 
they  certainly  are  not);    but  when  it  came  to  frantic 


xxvi  Heartbreak  House 

denunciations  of  German  chemistry,  German  biology, 
German  poetry,  German  music,  German  literature, 
German  philosophy,  and  even  German  engineering, 
as  malignant  abominations  standing  towards  British 
and  French  chemistry  and  so  forth  in  the  relation  of 
heaven  to  hell,  it  was  clear  that  the  utterers  of  such 
barbarous  ravings  had  never  really  understood  or 
cared  for  the  arts  and  sciences  they  professed  and 
were  profaning,  and  were  only  the  appallingly  de- 
generate descendants  of  the  men  of  the  seventeenth  and 
eighteenth  centuries  who,  recognizing  no  national 
frontiers  in  the  great  realm  of  the  human  mind,  kept 
the  European  comity  of  that  realm  loftily  and  even 
ostentatiously  above  the  rancors  of  the  battle-field. 
Tearing  the  Garter  from  the  Kaiser's  leg,  striking  the 
German  dukes  from  the  roll  of  our  peerage,  changing 
the  King's  illustrious  and  historically  appropriate  sur- 
name (for  the  war  was  the  old  war  of  Guelph  against 
Ghibelline,  with  the  Kaiser  as  Arch-Ghibelline)  to  that 
of  a  traditionless  locality.  One  felt  that  the  figure  of 
St.  George  and  the  Dragon  on  our  coinage  should  be 
replaced  by  that  of  the  soldier  driving  his  spear  through 
Archimedes.  But  by  that  time  there  was  no  coinage: 
only  paper  money  in  which  ten  shillings  called  itself 
a  pound  as  confidently  as  the  people  who  were  dis- 
gracing their  country  called  themselves  patriots. 


The  Sufferings  of  the  Sane 

The  mental  distress  of  living  amid  the  obscene  din 
of  all  these  carmagnoles  and  corobberies  was  not  the 
only  burden  that  lay  on  sane  people  during  the  war. 
There  was  also  the  emotional  strain,  complicated  by 
the  offended  economic  sense,  produced  by  the  casualty 
lists.    The  stupid,  the  selfish,  the  narrow-minded,  the 


Heartbreak  House  xxvii 

callous  and  unimaginative  were  spared  a  great  deal. 
"Blood  and  destruction  shall  be  so  in  use  that  mothers 
shall  but  smile  when  they  behold  their  infantes  quar- 
tered by  the  hands  of  war,"  was  a  Shakespearean 
prophecy  that  very  nearly  came  true;  for  when  nearly 
every  house  had  a  slaughtered  son  to  mourn,  we  should 
all  have  gone  quite  out  of  our  senses  if  we  had  taken 
our  own  and  our  friend's  bereavements  at  their  peace 
value.  It  became  necessary  to  give  them  a  false  value; 
to  proclaim  the  young  life  worthily  and  gloriously 
sacrificed  to  redeem  the  Hberty  of  mankind,  instead 
of  to  expiate  the  heedlessness  and  folly  of  their  fathers, 
and  expiate  it  in  vain.  We  had  even  to  assume  that 
the  parents  and  not  the  children  had  made  the  sacri- 
fice, until  at  last  the  comic  papers  were  driven  to 
satirize  fat  old  men,  sitting  comfortably  in  club  chairs, 
and  boasting  of  the  sons  they  had  "given"  to  their 
country. 

No  one  grudged  these  anodynes  to  acute  personal 
grief;  but  they  only  embittered  those  who  knew  that 
the  young  men  were  having  their  teeth  set  on  edge 
because  their  parents  had  eaten  sour  political  grapes. 
Then  think  of  the  young  men  themselves!  Many  of 
them  had  no  illusions  about  the  policy  that  led  to  the 
war:  they  went  clear-sighted  to  a  horribly  repugnant 
duty.  Men  essentially  gentle  and  essentially  wise, 
with  really  valuable  work  in  hand,  laid  it  down  volun- 
tarily and  spent  months  forming  fours  in  the  barrack 
yard,  and  stabbing  sacks  of  straw  in  the  public  eye, 
so  that  they  might  go  out  to  kill  and  maim  men  as 
gentle  as  themselves.  These  men,  who  were  perhaps, 
as  a  class,  our  most  efficient  soldiers  (Frederick  Keel- 
ing, for  example),  were  not  duped  for  a  moment  by 
the  hypocritical  melodrama  that  consoled  and  stimu- 
lated the  others.  They  left  their  creative  work  to 
drudge  at  destruction,  exactly  as  they  would  have 


xxviii  Heartbreak  House 

left  it  to  take  their  turn  at  the  pumps  in  a  sinking 
ship.  They  did  not,  Hke  some  of  the  conscientious 
objectors,  hold  back  because  the  ship  had  been  neg- 
lected by  its  officers  and  scuttled  by  its  wreckers. 
The  ship  had  to  be  saved,  even  if  Newton  had  to 
leave  his  fluxions  and  Michael  Angelo  his  marbles  to 
save  it;  so  they  threw  away  the  tools  of  their  beneficent 
and  ennobling  trades,  and  took  up  the  blood-stained 
bayonet  and  the  murderous  bomb,  forcing  themselves 
to  pervert  their  divine  instinct  for  perfect  artistic  exe- 
cution to  the  effective  handling  of  these  diaboUcal 
things,  and  their  economic  faculty  for  organization  to 
the  contriving  of  ruin  and  slaughter.  For  it  gave  an 
ironic  edge  to  their  tragedy  that  the  very  talents  they 
were  forced  to  prostitute  made  the  prostitution  not 
only  effective,  but  even  interesting;  so  that  some  of 
them  were  rapidly  promoted,  and  found  themselves 
actually  becoming  artists  in  war,  with  a  growing  rehsh 
for  it,  like  Napoleon  and  all  the  other  scourges  of 
mankind,  in  spite  of  themselves.  For  many  of  them 
there  was  not  even  this  consolation.  They  "stuck 
it,"  and  hated  it,  to  the  end. 


Evil  in  the  Throne  of  Good 

This  distress  of  the  gentle  was  so  acute  that  those 
who  shared  it  in  civil  life,  without  having  to  shed 
blood  with  their  own  hands,  or  witness  destruction 
with  their  own  eyes,  hardly  care  to  obtrude  their  own 
woes.  Nevertheless,  even  when  sitting  at  home  in 
safety,  it  was  not  easy  for  those  who  had  to  write 
and  speak  about  the  war  to  throw  away  their  highest 
conscience,  and  deliberately  work  to  a  standard  of 
inevitable  evil  instead  of  to  the  ideal  of  life  more 
abundant.    I  can  answer  for  at  least  one  person  who 


Heartbreak  House  xxix 

found  the  change  from  the  wisdom  of  Jesus  and  St. 
Francis  to  the  morals  of  Richard  III  and  the  madness 
of  Don  Quixote  extremely  irksome.  But  that  change 
had  to  be  made;  and  we  are  all  the  worse  for  it,  except 
those  for  whom  it  was  not  really  a  change  at  all,  but 
only  a  relief  from  hypocrisy. 

Think,  too,  of  those  who,  though  they  had  neither 
to  write  nor  to  fight,  and  had  no  children  of  their  own 
to  lose,  yet  knew  the  inestimable  loss  to  the  w^orld  of 
four  years  of  the  life  of  a  generation  wasted  on  destruc- 
tion. Hardly  one  of  the  epoch-making  works  of  the 
human  mind  might  not  have  been  aborted  or  destroyed 
by  taking  their  authors  away  from  their  natural  work 
for  four  critical  years.  Not  only  were  Shakespeares 
and  Platos  being  killed  outright;  but  many  of  the 
best  harvests  of  the  survivors  had  to  be  sown  in  the 
barren  soil  of  the  trenches.  And  this  was  no  mere 
British  consideration.  To  the  truly  civiMzed  man,  to 
the  good  European,  the  slaughter  of  the  German  youth 
was  as  disastrous  as  the  slaughter  of  the  English.  Fools 
exulted  in  '*  German  losses."  They  were  our  losses  as 
well.  Imagine  exulting  in  the  death  of  Beethoven 
because  Bill  Sykes  dealt  him  his  death  blow! 


Straining  at  the  Gnat  and  swallowing 
the  Camel 

But  most  people  could  not  comprehend  these  sor- 
rows. There  was  a  frivolous  exultation  in  death  for 
its  own  sake,  which  was  at  bottom  an  inability  to 
realize  that  the  deaths  were  real  deaths  and  not  stage 
ones.  Again  and  again,  when  an  air  raider  dropped  a 
bomb  which  tore  a  child  and  its  mother  limb  from 
limb,  the  people  who  saw  it,  though  they  had  been 
reading  with  great  cheerfulness  of  thousands  of  such 


XXX  Heartbreak  House 

happenings  day  after  day  in  their  newspapers,  sud- 
denly burst  into  furious  imprecations  on  "the  Huns" 
as  murderers,  and  shrieked  for  savage  and  satisfying 
vengeance.  At  such  moments  it  became  clear  that 
the  deaths  they  had  not  seen  meant  no  more  to  them 
than  the  mimic  death  of  the  cinema  screen.  Sometimes 
it  was  not  necessary  that  death  should  be  actually 
witnessed:  it  had  only  to  take  place  under  circum- 
stances of  sufficient  novelty  and  proximity  to  bring 
it  home  almost  as  sensationally  and  effectively  as  if  it 
had  been  actually  visible. 

For  example,  in  the  spring  of  1915  there  was  an 
appalling  slaughter  of  our  young  soldiers  at  Neuve 
Chapelle  and  at  the  Gallipoli  landing.  I  will  not  go 
so  far  as  to  say  that  our  civilians  were  delighted  to 
have  such  exciting  news  to  read  at  breakfast.  But  I 
cannot  pretend  that  I  noticed  either  in  the  papers, 
or  in  general  intercourse,  any  feeling  beyond  the  usual 
one  that  the  cinema  show  at  the  front  was  going  splen- 
didly, and  that  our  boys  were  the  bravest  of  the  brave. 
Suddenly  there  came  the  news  that  an  Atlantic  hner, 
the  Lusitania,  had  been  torpedoed,  and  that  several 
well-known  first-class  passengers,  including  a  famous 
theatrical  manager  and  the  author  of  a  popular  farce, 
had  been  drowned,  among  others.  The  others  in- 
cluded Sir  Hugh  Lane;  but  as  he  had  only  laid  the 
country  under  great  obligations  in  the  sphere  of  the 
fine  arts,  no  great  stress  was  laid  on  that  loss. 

Immediately  an  amazing  frenzy  swept  through  the 
country.  Men  who  up  to  that  time  had  kept  their 
heads  now  lost  them  utterly.  "Kilhng  saloon  pas- 
sengers! What  next?"  was  the  essence  of  the  whole 
agitation;  but  it  is  far  too  trivial  a  phrase  to  convey 
the  faintest  notion  of  the  rage  which  possessed  us. 
To  me,  with  my  mind  full  of  the  hideous  cost  of  Neuve 
Chapelle,  Ypres,  and  the  Gallipoli  landing,  the  fuss 


Heartbreak  House  xxxi 

about  the  Lusitania  seemed  almost  a  heartless  im- 
pertinence, though  I  was  well  acquainted  personally 
with  the  three  best-known  victims,  and  understood, 
better  perhaps  than  most  people,  the  misfortune  of 
the  death  of  Lane.  I  even  found  a  grim  satisfaction, 
very  intelligible  to  all  soldiers,  in  the  fact  that  the 
civilians  who  found  the  war  such  splendid  British 
sport  should  get  a  sharp  taste  of  what  it  was  to  the 
actual  combatants.  I  expressed  my  impatience  very 
freely,  and  found  that  my  very  straightforward  and 
natural  feeling  in  the  matter  was  received  as  a  mon- 
strous and  heartless  paradox.  When  I  asked  those 
who  gaped  at  me  whether  they  had  anything  to  say 
about  the  holocaust  of  Festubert,  they  gaped  wider 
than  before,  having  totally  forgotten  it,  or  rather,  hav- 
ing never  realized  it.  They  were  not  heartless  any  more 
than  I  was;  but  the  big  catastrophe  was  too  big  for 
them  to  grasp,  and  the  Uttle  one  had  been  just  the 
right  size  for  them.  I  was  not  surprised.  Have  I  not 
seen  a  public  body  for  just  the  same  reason  pass  a 
vote  for  £30,000  without  a  word,  and  then  spend 
three  special  meetings,  prolonged  into  the  night,  over 
an  item  of  seven  shillings  for  refreshments? 


Little  Minds  and  Big  Battles 

Nobody  will  be  able  to  understand  the  vagaries  of 
public  feeling  during  the  war  unless  they  bear  con- 
stantly in  mind  that  the  war  in  its  entire  magnitude 
did  not  exist  for  the  average  civilian.  He  could  not 
conceive  even  a  battle,  much  less  a  campaign.  To 
the  suburbs  the  war  was  nothing  but  a  suburban 
squabble.  To  the  miner  and  navvy  it  was  only  a 
series  of  bayonet  fights  between  German  champions 
and   EngUsh   ones.     The   enormity   of   it   was   quite 


xxxii  Heartbreak  House 

beyond  most  of  us.  Its  episodes  had  to  be  reduced 
to  the  dimensions  of  a  railway  accident  or  a  ship- 
wreck before  it  could  produce  any  effect  on  our  minds 
at  all.  To  us  the  ridiculous  bombardments  of  Scar- 
borough and  Ramsgate  were  colossal  tragedies,  and 
the  battle  of  Jutland  a  mere  ballad.  The  words  **  after 
thorough  artillery  preparation"  in  the  news  from  the 
front  meant  nothing  to  us;  but  when  our  seaside 
trippers  learned  that  an  elderly  gentleman  at  break- 
fast in  a  week-end  marine  hotel  had  been  interrupted 
by  a  bomb  dropping  into  his  egg-cup,  their  wrath 
and  horror  knew  no  bounds.  They  declared  that  this 
would  put  a  new  spirit  into  the  army,  and  had  no 
suspicion  that  the  soldiers  in  the  trenches  roared 
with  laughter  over  it  for  days,  and  told  each  other 
that  it  would  do  the  blighters  at  home  good  to  have 
a  taste  of  what  the  army  was  up  against.  Sometimes 
the  smallness  of  view  was  pathetic.  A  man  would 
work  at  home  regardless  of  the  call  "to  make  the 
world  safe  for  democracy.'*  His  brother  would  be 
killed  at  the  front.  Immediately  he  would  throw  up 
his  work  and  take  up  the  war  as  a  family  blood  feud 
against  the  Germans.  Sometimes  it  was  comic.  A 
wounded  man,  entitled  to  his  discharge,  would  return 
to  the  trenches  with  a  grim  determination  to  find  the 
Hun  who  had  wounded  him  and  pay  him  out  for  it. 

It  is  impossible  to  estimate  what  proportion  of  us, 
in  khaki  or  out  of  it,  grasped  the  war  and  its  political 
antecedents  as  a  whole  in  the  light  of  any  philosophy 
of  history  or  knowledge  of  what  war  is.  I  doubt 
whether  it  was  as  high  as  our  proportion  of  higher 
mathematicians.  But  there  can  be  no  doubt  that  it 
was  prodigiously  outnumbered  by  the  comparatively 
ignorant  and  childish.  Remember  that  these  people 
had  to  be  stimulated  to  make  the  sacrifices  demanded 
by  the  war,  and  that  this  could  not  be  done  by  appeals 


Heartbreak  House  xxxiii 

to  a  knowledge  which  they  did  not  possess,  and  a  com- 
prehension of  which  they  were  incapable.  When  the 
armistice  at  last  set  me  free  to  tell  the  truth  about 
the  war  at  the  following  general  election,  a  soldier 
said  to  a  candidate  whom  I  was  supporting,  "If  I  had 
known  all  that  in  1914,  they  would  never  have  got 
me  into  khaki."  And  that,  of  course,  was  precisely 
why  it  had  been  necessary  to  stuff  him  with  a  romance 
that  any  diplomatist  would  have  laughed  at.  Thus 
the  natural  confusion  of  ignorance  was  increased  by 
a  deliberately  propagated  confusion  of  nursery  bogey 
stories  and  melodramatic  nonsense,  which  at  last  over- 
reached itself  and  made  it  impossible  to  stop  the  war 
before  we  had  not  only  achieved  the  triumph  of  van- 
quishing the  German  army  and  thereby  overthrowing 
its  mihtarist  monarchy,  but  made  the  very  serious 
mistake  of  ruining  the  centre  of  Europe,  a  thing  that 
no  sane  European  State  could  afford  to  do. 


The  Dumb  Capables  and  the 
Noisy  Incapables 

Confronted  with  this  picture  of  insensate  delusion 
and  folly,  the  critical  reader  will  immediately  counter- 
plead that  England  all  this  time  was  conducting  a 
war  which  involved  the  organization  of  several  mil- 
lions of  fighting  men  and  of  the  workers  who  were 
supplying  them  with  provisions,  munitions,  and 
transport,  and  that  this  could  not  have  been  done  by 
a  mob  of  hysterical  ranters.  This  is  fortunately  true. 
To  pass  from  the  newspaper  offices  and  political  plat- 
forms and  club  fenders  and  suburban  drawing-rooms 
to  the  Army  and  the  munition  factories  was  to  pass 
from  Bedlam  to  the  busiest  and  sanest  of  workaday 
worlds.     It  was  to  rediscover  England,  and  find  solid 


xxxiv  Heartbreak  House 

ground  for  the  faith  of  those  who  still  believed  in  her. 
But  a  necessary  condition  of  this  efficiency  was  that 
those  who  were  efficient  should  give  all  their  time  to 
their  business  and  leave  the  rabble  raving  to  its  heart's 
content.  Indeed  the  raving  was  useful  to  the  efficient, 
because,  as  it  was  always  wide  of  the  mark,  it  often 
distracted  attention  very  conveniently  from  operations 
that  would  have  been  defeated  or  hindered  by  pub- 
licity. A  precept  which  I  endeavored  vainly  to  popu- 
larize early  in  the  war,  "If  you  have  anything  to  do 
go  and  do  it:  if  not,  for  heaven's  sake  get  out  of  the 
way,"  was  only  half  carried  out.  Certainly  the  capable 
people  went  and  did  it;  but  the  incapables  would  by 
no  means  get  out  of  the  way:  they  fussed  and  bawled 
and  were  only  prevented  from  getting  very  seriously 
into  the  way  by  the  blessed  fact  that  they  never  knew 
where  the  way  was.  Thus  whilst  all  the  efficiency  of 
England  was  silent  and  invisible,  all  its  imbecihty 
was  deafening  the  heavens  with  its  clamor  and  blotting 
out  the  sun  with  its  dust.  It  was  also  unfortunately 
intimidating  the  Government  by  its  blusterings  into 
using  the  irresistible  powers  of  the  State  to  intimidate 
the  sensible  people,  thus  enabling  a  despicable  minority 
of  would-be  lynchers  to  set  up  a  reign  of  terror  which 
could  at  any  time  have  been  broken  by  a  single  stern 
word  from  a  responsible  minister.  But  our  ministers 
had  not  that  sort  of  courage:  neither  Heartbreak 
House  nor  Horseback  Hall  had  bred  it,  much  less  the 
suburbs.  When  matters  at  last  came  to  the  looting  of 
shops  by  criminals  under  patriotic  pretexts,  it  was  the 
police  force  and  not  the  Government  that  put  its  foot 
down.  There  was  even  one  deplorable  moment,  during 
the  submarine  scare,  in  which  the  Government  yielded 
to  a  childish  cry  for  the  maltreatment  of  naval  prisoners 
of  war,  and,  to  our  great  disgrace,  was  forced  by  the 
enemy  to  behave  itself.    And  yet  behind  all  this  public 


Heartbreak  House  xxxv 

blundering  and  misconduct  and  futile  mischief,  the 
effective  England  was  carrying  on  with  the  most 
formidable  capacity  and  activity.  The  ostensible 
England  was  making  the  empire  sick  with  its  incon- 
tinences, its  ignorances,  its  ferocities,  its  panics,  and 
its  endless  and  intolerable  blarings  of  Allied  national 
anthems  in  season  and  out.  The  esoteric  England  was 
proceeding  irresistibly  to  the  conquest  of  Europe. 


The  Practical  Business  Men 

From  the  beginning  the  useless  people  set  up  a 
shriek  for  "practical  business  men."  By  this  they 
meant  men  who  had  become  rich  by  placing  their 
personal  interests  before  those  of  the  country,  and 
measuring  the  success  of  every  activity  by  the  pe- 
cuniary profit  it  brought  to  them  and  to  those  on 
whom  they  depended  for  their  supplies  of  capital. 
The  pitiable  failure  of  some  conspicuous  samples  from 
the  first  batch  we  tried  of  these  poor  devils  helped 
to  give  the  whole  public  side  of  the  war  an  air  of 
monstrous  and  hopeless  farce.  They  proved  not  only 
that  they  were  useless  for  public  work,  but  that  in  a 
well-ordered  nation  they  would  never  have  been  allowed 
to  control  private  enterprise. 


How  the  Fools  shouted  the  Wise 
Men  down 

Thus,  like  a  fertile  country  flooded  with  mud,  England 
showed  no  sign  of  her  greatness  in  the  days  when  she 
was  putting  forth  all  her  strength  to  save  herself  from 
the  worst  consequences  of  her  littleness.  Most  of  the 
men  of  action,  occupied  to  the  last  hour  of  their  time 


xxxvi  Heartbreak  House 

with  urgent  practical  work,  had  to  leave  to  idler 
people,  or  to  professional  rhetoricians,  the  presenta- 
tion of  the  war  to  the  reason  and  imagination  of  the 
country  and  the  world  in  speeches,  poems,  manifestoes, 
picture  posters,  and  newspaper  articles.  I  have  had 
the  privilege  of  hearing  some  of  our  ablest  commanders 
talking  about  their  work;  and  I  have  shared  the  com- 
mon lot  of  reading  the  accounts  of  that  work  given  to 
the  world  by  the  newspapers.  No  two  experiences 
could  be  more  different.  But  in  the  end  the  talkers 
obtained  a  dangerous  ascendancy  over  the  rank  and 
file  of  the  men  of  action;  for  though  the  great  men 
of  action  are  always  inveterate  talkers  and  often  very 
clever  writers,  and  therefore  cannot  have  their  minds 
formed  for  them  by  others,  the  average  man  of  action, 
like  the  average  fighter  with  the  bayonet,  can  give 
no  account  of  himself  in  words  even  to  himself,  and 
is  apt  to  pick  up  and  accept  what  he  reads  about  him- 
self and  other  people  in  the  papers,  except  when  the 
writer  is  rash  enough  to  commit  himself  on  technical 
points.  It  was  not  uncommon  during  the  war  to 
hear  a  soldier,  or  a  civilian  engaged  on  war  work, 
describing  events  within  his  own  experience  that  re- 
duced to  utter  absurdity  the  ravings  and  maunderings 
of  his  daily  paper,  and  yet  echo  the  opinions  of  that 
paper  like  a  parrot.  Thus,  to  escape  from  the  pre- 
vailing confusion  and  folly,  it  was  not  enough  to  seek 
the  company  of  the  ordinary  man  of  action:  one  had 
to  get  into  contact  with  the  master  spirits.  This  was 
a  privilege  which  only  a  handful  of  people  could  enjoy. 
For  the  unprivileged  citizen  there  was  no  escape.  To 
him  the  whole  country  seemed  mad,  futile,  silly,  in- 
competent, with  no  hope  of  victory  except  the  hope 
that  the  enemy  might  be  just  as  mad.  Only  by  very 
resolute  reflection  and  reasoning  could  he  reassure 
himself  that  if  there  was  nothing  more  solid  beneath 


Heartbreak  House  xxxvii 

these  appalling  appearances  the  war  could  not  pos- 
sibly have  gone  on  for  a  single  day  without  a  total 
breakdown  of  its  organization. 


The  Mad  Election 

Happy  were  the  fools  and  the  thoughtless  men  of 
action  in  those  days.  The  worst  of  it  was  that  the 
fools  were  very  strongly  represented  in  parliament,  as 
fools  not  only  elect  fools,  but  can  persuade  men  of 
action  to  elect  them  too.  The  election  that  immediately 
followed  the  armistice  was  perhaps  the  maddest  that 
has  ever  taken  place.  Soldiers  who  had  done  voluntary 
and  heroic  service  in  the  field  were  defeated  by  per- 
sons who  had  apparently  never  run  a  risk  or  spent  a 
farthing  that  they  could  avoid,  and  who  even  had  in 
the  course  of  the  election  to  apologize  publicly  for 
bawling  Pacifist  or  Pro-German  at  their  opponent. 
Party  leaders  seek  such  followers,  who  can  always  be 
depended  on  to  walk  tamely  into  the  lobby  at  the 
party  whip's  orders,  provided  the  leader  will  make 
their  seats  safe  for  them  by  the  process  which  was 
called,  in  derisive  reference  to  the  war  rationing  sys- 
tem, "giving  them  the  coupon."  Other  incidents  were 
so  grotesque  that  I  cannot  mention  them  without 
enabling  the  reader  to  identify  the  parties,  which 
would  not  be  fair,  as  they  were  no  more  to  blame  than 
thousands  of  others  who  must  necessarily  be  nameless. 
The  general  result  was  patently  absurd;  and  the  elec- 
torate, disgusted  at  its  own  work,  instantly  recoiled 
to  the  opposite  extreme,  and  cast  out  all  the  coupon 
candidates  at  the  earliest  bye-elections  by  equally 
silly  majorities.  But  the  mischief  of  the  general  elec- 
tion could  not  be  undone;  and  the  Government  had 
not  only  to  pretend  to  abuse  its  European  victory 


xxxviii  Heartbreak  House 

as  it  had  promised,  but  actually  to  do  it  by  starving 
the  enemies  who  had  thrown  down  their  arms.  It 
had,  in  short,  won  the  election  by  pledging  itself  to 
be  thriftlessly  wicked,  cruel,  and  vindictive;  and  it  did 
not  find  it  as  easy  to  escape  from  this  pledge  as  it  had 
from  nobler  ones.  The  end,  as  I  write,  is  not  yet; 
but  it  is  clear  that  this  thoughtless  savagery  will  recoil 
on  the  heads  of  the  Allies  so  severely  that  we  shall 
be  forced  by  the  sternest  necessity  to  take  up  our 
share  of  healing  the  Europe  we  have  wounded  almost 
to  death  instead  of  attempting  to  complete  her 
destruction. 


The  Yahoo  and  the  Angry  Ape 

Contemplating  this  picture  of  a  state  of  mankind 
so  recent  that  no  denial  of  its  truth  is  possible,  one 
understands  Shakespeare  comparing  Man  to  an  angry 
ape,  Swift  describing  him  as  a  Yahoo  rebuked  by  the 
superior  virtue  of  the  horse,  and  Wellington  declaring 
that  the  British  can  behave  themselves  neither  in 
victory  nor  defeat.  Yet  none  of  the  three  had  seen 
war  as  we  have  seen  it.  Shakespeare  blamed  great 
men,  saying  that  "Could  great  men  thunder  as  Jove 
himself  does,  Jove  would  ne'er  be  quiet;  for  every 
pelting  petty  officer  would  use  his  heaven  for  thunder: 
nothing  but  thunder."  What  would  Shakespeare  have 
said  if  he  had  seen  something  far  more  destructive 
than  thunder  in  the  hand  of  every  village  laborer,  and 
found  on  the  Messines  Ridge  the  craters  of  the  nine- 
teen volcanoes  that  were  let  loose  there  at  the  touch 
of  a  finger  that  might  have  been  a  child's  finger  without 
the  result  being  a  whit  less  ruinous.'^  Shakespeare  may 
have  seen  a  Stratford  cottage  struck  by  one  of  Jove's 
thunderbolts,  and  have  helped  to  extinguish  the  lighted 


Heartbreak  House  xxxix 

thatch  and  clear  away  the  bits  of  the  broken  chimney. 
What  would  he  have  said  if  he  had  seen  Ypres  as  it 
is  now,  or  returned  to  Stratford,  as  French  peasants 
are  returning  to  their  homes  to-day,  to  find  the  old 
familiar  signpost  inscribed  "To  Stratford,  1  mile," 
and  at  the  end  of  the  mile  nothing  but  some  holes  in 
the  ground  and  a  fragment  of  a  broken  churn  here 
and  there?  Would  not  the  spectacle  of  the  angry 
ape  endowed  with  powers  of  destruction  that  Jove 
never  pretended  to,  have  beggared  even  his  command 
of  words? 

And  yet,  what  is  there  to  say  except  that  war  puts 
a  strain  on  human  nature  that  breaks  down  the  better 
half  of  it,  and  makes  the  worse  half  a  diabolical  virtue? 
Better  for  us  if  it  broke  it  down  altogether,  for  then 
the  warlike  way  out  of  our  difficulties  would  be  barred 
to  us,  and  we  should  take  greater  care  not  to  get  into 
them.  In  truth,  it  is,  as  Byron  said,  "not  difficult  to 
die,"  and  enormously  difficult  to  Uve:  that  explains 
why,  at  bottom,  peace  is  not  only  better  than  war, 
but  infinitely  more  arduous.  Did  any  hero  of  the 
war  face  the  glorious  risk  of  death  more  bravely  than 
the  traitor  Bolo  faced  the  ignominious  certainty  of  it? 
Bolo  taught  us  all  how  to  die:  can  we  say  that  he 
taught  us  all  how  to  live?  Hardly  a  week  passes  now 
without  some  soldier  who  braved  death  in  the  field 
so  recklessly  that  he  was  decorated  or  specially  com- 
mended for  it,  being  haled  before  our  magistrates  for 
having  failed  to  resist  the  paltriest  temptations  of 
peace,  with  no  better  excuse  than  the  old  one  that 
"a  man  must  live."  Strange  that  one  who,  sooner 
than  do  honest  work,  will  sell  his  honor  for  a  bottle 
of  wine,  a  visit  to  the  theatre,  and  an  hour  with  a 
strange  woman,  all  obtained  by  passing  a  worthless 
cheque,  could  yet  stake  his  life  on  the  most  desperate 
chances  of  the  battle-field!     Does  it  not  seem  as  if. 


xl  Heartbreak  House 

after  all,  the  glory  of  death  were  cheaper  than  the 
glory  of  life?  If  it  is  not  easier  to  attain,  why  do  so 
many  more  men  attain  it?  At  all  events  it  is  clear 
that  the  kingdom  of  the  Prince  of  Peace  has  not  yet 
become  the  kingdom  of  this  world.  His  attempts  at 
invasion  have  been  resisted  far  more  fiercely  than  the 
Kaiser's.  Successful  as  that  resistance  has  been,  it 
has  piled  up  a  sort  of  National  Debt  that  is  not  the 
less  oppressive  because  we  have  no  figures  for  it  and 
do  not  intend  to  pay  it.  A  blockade  that  cuts  off 
"the  grace  of  oin*  Lord"  is  in  the  long  run  less  bear- 
able than  the  blockades  which  merely  cut  off  raw 
materials;  and  agaiust  that  blockade  our  Armada  is 
impotent.  In  the  blockader's  house,  he  has  assured 
us,  there  are  many  mansions;  but  I  am  afraid  they 
do  not  include  either  Heartbreak  House  or  Horse- 
back Hall. 


Plague  on  Both  your  Houses! 

Meanwhile  the  Bolshevist  picks  and  petards  are  at 
work  on  the  foundations  of  both  buildings;  and  though 
the  Bolshevists  may  be  buried  in  the  ruius,  their  deaths 
will  not  save  the  edifices.  Unfortimately  they  can 
be  built  again.  Like  Doubting  Castle,  they  have  been 
demolished  many  times  by  successive  Greathearts, 
and  rebuilt  by  Simple,  Sloth,  and  Presumption,  by 
Feeble  Mind  and  Much  Afraid,  and  by  all  the  jury- 
men of  Vanity  Fair.  Another  generation  of  "second- 
ary education"  at  our  ancient  public  schools  and  the 
cheaper  institutions  that  ape  them  will  be  quite  suffi- 
cient to  keep  the  two  going  imtil  the  next  war. 

For  the  iustruction  of  that  generation  I  leave  these 
pages  as  a  record  of  what  civilian  life  was  during  the 
war:  a  matter  on  which  history  is  usually  silent.    For- 


Heartbreak  House  xli 

tunately  it  was  a  very  short  war.  It  is  true  that  the 
people  who  thought  it  could  not  last  more  than  six 
months  were  very  signally  refuted  by  the  event.  As 
Sir  Douglas  Haig  has  pointed  out,  its  Waterloos  lasted 
months  instead  of  hours.  But  there  would  have  been 
nothing  surprising  in  its  lasting  thirty  years.  If  it 
had  not  been  for  the  fact  that  the  blockade  achieved 
the  amazing  feat  of  starving  out  Europe,  which  it  could 
not  possibly  have  done  had  Europe  been  properly 
organized  for  war,  or  even  for  peace,  the  war  would 
have  lasted  until  the  belligerents  were  so  tired  of  it 
that  they  could  no  longer  be  compelled  to  compel 
themselves  to  go  on  with  it.  Considering  its  magnitude, 
the  war  of  1914r-18  will  certainly  be  classed  as  the 
shortest  in  history.  The  end  came  so  suddenly  that 
the  combatant  literally  stumbled  over  it;  and  yet 
it  came  a  full  year  later  than  it  should  have  come  if 
the  belligerents  had  not  been  far  too  afraid  of  one 
another  to  face  the  situation  sensibly.  Germany, 
having  failed  to  provide  for  the  war  she  began,  failed 
again  to  surrender  before  she  was  dangerously  ex- 
hausted. Her  opponents,  equally  improvident,  went 
as  much  too  close  to  bankruptcy  as  Germany  to  starva- 
tion. It  was  a  bluff  at  which  both  were  bluffed.  And, 
with  the  usual  irony  of  war,  it  remains  doubtful  whether 
Germany  and  Russia,  the  defeated,  will  not  be  the 
gainers;  for  the  victors  are  already  busy  fastening  on 
themselves  the  chains  they  have  struck  from  the  Hmbs 
of  the  vanquished. 


How  the  Theatre  fared 

Let  us  now  contract  our  view  rather  violently  from 
the  European  theatre  of  war  to  the  theatre  in  which 
the  fights  are  sham  fights,  and  the  slain,  rising  the 


xlii  Heartbreak  House 

moment  the  curtain  has  fallen,  go  comfortably  home 
to  supper  after  washing  off  their  rose-pink  wounds. 
It  is  nearly  twenty  years  since  I  was  last  obliged  to 
introduce  a  play  in  the  form  of  a  book  for  lack  of  an 
opportunity  of  presenting  it  in  its  proper  mode  by  a 
performance  in  a  theatre.  The  war  has  thrown  me 
back  on  this  expedient.  Heartbreak  House  has  not 
yet  reached  the  stage.  I  have  withheld  it  because  the 
war  has  completely  upset  the  economic  conditions 
which  formerly  enabled  serious  drama  to  pay  its  way 
in  London.  The  change  is  not  in  the  theatres  nor  in 
the  management  of  them,  nor  in  the  authors  and 
actors,  but  in  the  audiences.  For  four  years  the 
London  theatres  were  crowded  every  night  with 
thousands  of  soldiers  on  leave  from  the  front.  These 
soldiers  were  not  seasoned  London  playgoers.  A  child- 
ish experience  of  my  own  gave  me  a  clue  to  their 
condition.  When  I  was  a  small  boy  I  was  taken  to 
the  opera.  I  did  not  then  know  what  an  opera  was, 
though  I  could  whistle  a  good  deal  of  opera  music. 
I  had  seen  in  my  mother's  album  photographs  of  all 
the  great  opera  singers,  mostly  in  evening  dress.  In 
the  theatre  I  found  myself  before  a  gilded  balcony  filled 
with  persons  in  evening  dress  whom  I  took  to  be  the 
opera  singers.  I  picked  out  one  massive  dark  lady  as 
Alboni,  and  wondered  how  soon  she  would  stand  up 
and  sing.  I  was  puzzled  by  the  fact  that  I  was  made 
to  sit  with  my  back  to  the  singers  instead  of  facing 
them.  When  the  curtain  went  up,  my  astonishment 
and  delight  were  unbounded. 


The  Soldier  at  the  Theatre  Front 

In  1915,  I  saw  in  the  theatres  men  in  khaki  in  just 
the  same   predicament.     To   everyone   who   had   my 


Heartbreak  House  xliii 

clue  to  their  state  of  mind  it  was  evident  that  they 
had  never  been  in  a  theatre  before  and  did  not  know 
what  it  was.  At  one  of  our  great  variety  theatres 
I  sat  beside  a  young  officer,  not  at  all  a  rough  speci- 
men, who,  even  when  the  curtain  rose  and  enlightened 
him  as  to  the  place  where  he  had  to  look  for  his  en- 
tertainment, found  the  dramatic  part  of  it  utterly 
incomprehensible.  He  did  not  kaow  how  to  play  his 
part  of  the  game.  He  could  understand  the  people 
on  the  stage  singing  and  dancing  and  performing 
gymnastic  feats.  He  not  only  imderstood  but  intensely 
enjoyed  an  artist  who  imitated  cocks  crowing  and  pigs 
squeaking.  But  the  people  who  pretended  that  they 
were  somebody  else,  and  that  the  painted  picture 
behind  them  was  real,  bewildered  him.  In  his  presence 
I  reahzed  how  very  sophisticated  the  natural  man  has 
to  become  before  the  conventions  of  the  theatre  can 
be  easily  acceptable,  or  the  purpose  of  the  drama  ob- 
vious to  him. 

Well,  from  the  moment  when  the  routine  of  leave 
for  our  soldiers  was  established,  such  novices,  ac- 
companied by  damsels  (called  flappers)  often  as  inno- 
cent as  themselves,  crowded  the  theatres  to  the  doors. 
It  was  hardly  possible  at  first  to  find  stuff  crude  enough 
to  nurse  them  on.  The  best  music-hall  comedians 
ransacked  their  memories  for  the  oldest  quips  and 
the  most  childish  antics  to  avoid  carrying  the  military 
spectators  out  of  their  depth.  I  believe  that  this  was 
a  mistake  as  far  as  the  novices  were  concerned.  Shake- 
speare, or  the  dramatized  histories  of  George  Barnwell, 
Maria  Martin,  or  the  Demon  Barber  of  Fleet  Street, 
would  probably  have  been  quite  popular  with  them. 
But  the  novices  were  only  a  minority  after  all.  The 
cultivated  soldier,  who  in  time  of  peace  would  look 
at  nothing  theatrical  except  the  most  advanced  post- 
Ibsen  plays  in  the  most  artistic  settings,  found  him- 


xliv  Heartbreak  House 

self,  to  his  own  astonishment,  thirsting  for  silly  jokes, 
dances,  and  brainlessly  sensuous  exhibitions  of  pretty 
girls.  The  author  of  some  of  the  most  grimly  serious 
plays  of  our  time  told  me  that  after  enduring  the 
trenches  for  months  without  a  glimpse  of  the  female  of 
his  species,  it  gave  him  an  entirely  innocent  but  de- 
lightful pleasure  merely  to  see  a  jflapper.  The  reaction 
from  the  battle-field  produced  a  condition  of  hyper- 
aesthesia  in  which  all  the  theatrical  values  were  altered. 
Trivial  things  gained  intensity  and  stale  things  novelty. 
The  actor,  instead  of  having  to  coax  his  audiences  out 
of  the  boredom  which  had  driven  them  to  the  theatre 
in  an  ill  humor  to  seek  some  sort  of  distraction,  had 
only  to  exploit  the  bliss  of  smiling  men  who  were  no 
longer  under  fire  and  under  military  discipline,  but 
actually  clean  and  comfortable  and  in  a  mood  to  be 
pleased  with  anything  and  everything  that  a  bevy 
of  pretty  girls  and  a  funny  man,  or  even  a  bevy  of 
girls  pretending  to  be  pretty  and  a  man  pretending  to 
be  funny,  could  do  for  them. 

Then  could  be  seen  every  night  in  the  theatres  old- 
fashioned  farcical  comedies,  in  which  a  bedroom,  with 
four  doors  on  each  side  and  a  practicable  window  in 
the  middle,  was  understood  to  resemble  exactly  the 
bedroom  in  the  flats  beneath  and  above,  all  three  in- 
habited by  couples  consumed  with  jealousy.  When 
these  people  came  home  drunk  at  night;  mistook  their 
neighbor's  flats  for  their  own;  and  in  due  course  got 
into  the  wrong  beds,  it  was  not  only  the  novices  who 
found  the  resulting  complications  and  scandals  ex- 
quisitely ingenious  and  amusing,  nor  their  equally 
verdant  flappers  who  could  not  help  squealing  in  a 
manner  that  astonished  the  oldest  performers  when 
the  gentleman  who  had  just  come  in  drunk  through 
the  window  pretended  to  undress,  and  allowed  glimpses 
of  his  naked  person  to  be  descried  from  time  to  time. 


Heartbreak  House  xlv 

Men  who  had  just  read  the  news  that  Charles  Wyndham 
was  dying,  and  were  thereby  sadly  reminded  of  Pink 
Dominos  and  the  torrent  of  farcical  comedies  that 
followed  it  in  his  heyday  mitil  every  trick  of  that  trade 
had  become  so  stale  that  the  laughter  they  provoked 
turned  to  loathing:  these  veterans  also,  when  they 
returned  from  the  field,  were  as  much  pleased  by  what 
they  knew  to  be  stale  and  foolish  as  the  novices  by 
what  they  thought  fresh  and  clever. 


Commerce  in  the  Theatre 

Wellington  said  that  an  army  moves  on  its  belly. 
So  does  a  London  theatre.  Before  a  man  acts  he 
must  eat.  Before  he  performs  plays  he  must  pay 
rent.  In  London  we  have  no  theatres  for  the  welfare 
of  the  people:  they  are  all  for  the  sole  purpose  of 
producing  the  utmost  obtainable  rent  for  the  pro- 
prietor. If  the  twin  flats  and  twin  beds  produce  a 
guinea  more  than  Shakespeare,  out  goes  Shakespeare 
and  in  come  the  twin  flats  and  the  twin  beds.  If  the 
brainless  bevy  of  pretty  girls  and  the  funny  man 
outbid  Mozart,  out  goes  Mozart. 


TJnser  Shakespeare 

Before  the  war  an  effort  was  made  to  remedy  this 
by  establishing  a  national  theatre  in  celebration  of 
the  tercentenary  of  the  death  of  Shakespeare.  A  com- 
mittee was  formed;  and  all  sorts  of  illustrious  and 
influential  persons  lent  their  names  to  a  grand  appeal 
to  our  national  culture.  My  play,  The  Dark  Lady  of 
The  Sonnets,  was  one  of  the  incidents  of  that  appeal. 
After  some  years  of  effort  the  result  was  a  single  hand- 


xlvi  Heartbreak  House 

some  subscription  from  a  German  gentleman.  Like 
the  celebrated  swearer  in  the  anecdote  when  the  cart 
containing  all  his  household  goods  lost  its  tailboard  at 
the  top  of  the  hill  and  let  its  contents  roll  in  ruin  to 
the  bottom,  I  can  only  say,  "I  cannot  do  justice  to 
this  situation,"  and  let  it  pass  without  another  word. 


The  Higher  Drama  put  out  of  Action 

The  effect  of  the  war  on  the  London  theatres  may 
now  be  imagined.  The  beds  and  the  bevies  drove 
every  higher  form  of  art  out  of  it.  Rents  went  up  to 
an  unprecedented  figure.  At  the  same  time  prices 
doubled  everywhere  except  at  the  theatre  pay-boxes, 
and  raised  the  expenses  of  management  to  such  a 
degree  that  unless  the  houses  were  quite  full  every 
night,  profit  was  impossible.  Even  bare  solvency  could 
not  be  attained  without  a  very  wide  popularity.  Now 
what  had  made  serious  drama  possible  to  a  limited 
extent  before  the  war  was  that  a  play  could  pay  its 
way  even  if  the  theatre  were  only  half  full  until  Satur- 
day and  three-quarters  full  then.  A  manager  who  was 
an  enthusiast  and  a  desperately  hard  worker,  with  an 
occasional  grant-in-aid  from  an  artistically  disposed 
millionaire,  and  a  due  proportion  of  those  rare  and 
happy  accidents  by  which  plays  of  the  higher  sort 
turn  out  to  be  potboilers  as  well,  could  hold  out  for 
for  some  years,  by  which  time  a  relay  might  arrive  in 
the  person  of  another  enthusiast.  Thus  and  not  other- 
wise occurred  that  remarkable  revival  of  the  British 
drama  at  the  beginning  of  the  century  which  made  my 
own  career  as  a  playwright  possible  in  England.  In 
America  I  had  already  established  myself,  not  as 
part  of  the  ordinary  theatre  system,  but  in  association 
with  the  exceptional  genius  of  Richard  Mansfield.    In 


Heartbreak  House  xlvii 

Germany  and  Austria  I  had  no  difficulty:  the  system 
of  pubhcly  aided  theatres  there,  Court  and  Municipal, 
kept  drama  of  the  kind  I  dealt  in  alive;  so  that  I  was 
indebted  to  the  Emperor  of  Austria  for  magnificent 
productions  of  my  works  at  a  time  when  the  sole 
official  attention  paid  me  by  the  British  Courts  was  the 
announcement  to  the  English-speaking  world  that 
certain  plays  of  mine  were  unfit  for  public  perform- 
ance, a  substantial  set-off  against  this  being  that  the 
British  Court,  in  the  course  of  its  private  playgoing, 
paid  no  regard  to  the  bad  character  given  me  by  the 
chief  officer  of  its  household. 

Howbeit,  the  fact  that  my  plays  effected  a  lodgment 
on  the  London  stage,  and  were  presently  followed  by 
the  plays  of  Granville  Barker,  Gilbert  Murray,  John 
Masefield,  St.  John  Hankin,  Laurence  Housman, 
Arnold  Bennett,  John  Galsworthy,  John  Drinkwater, 
and  others  which  would  in  the  nineteenth  century 
have  stood  rather  less  chance  of  production  at  a  Lon- 
don theatre  than  the  Dialogues  of  Plato,  not  to  mention 
revivals  of  the  ancient  Athenian  drama  and  a  restora- 
tion to  the  stage  of  Shakespeare's  plays  as  he  wrote 
them,  was  made  economically  possible  solely  by  a  supply 
of  theatres  which  could  hold  nearly  twice  as  much 
money  as  it  cost  to  rent  and  maintain  them.  In  such 
theatres  work  appealing  to  a  relatively  small  class  of 
cultivated  persons,  and  therefore  attracting  only  from 
half  to  three-quarters  as  many  spectators  as  the  more 
popular  pastimes,  could  nevertheless  keep  going  in 
the  hands  of  young  adventurers  who  were  doing  it  for 
its  own  sake,  and  had  not  yet  been  forced  by  advanc- 
ing age  and  responsibilities  to  consider  the  commercial 
value  of  their  time  and  energy  too  closely.  The  war 
struck  this  foundation  away  in  the  manner  I  have  just 
described.  The  expenses  of  running  the  cheapest 
west-end  theatres  rose  to  a  sum  which  exceeded  by 


xlviii  Heartbreak  House 

twenty-five  per  cent  the  utmost  that  the  higher  drama 
can,  as  an  ascertained  matter  of  fact,  be  depended 
on  to  draw.  Thus  the  higher  drama,  which  has  never 
really  been  a  commercially  sound  speculation,  now 
became  an  impossible  one.  Accordingly,  attempts  are 
being  made  to  provide  a  refuge  for  it  in  subm-ban 
theatres  in  London  and  repertory  theatres  in  the 
provinces.  But  at  the  moment  when  the  army  has 
at  last  disgorged  the  survivors  of  the  gallant  band  of 
dramatic  pioneers  whom  it  swallowed,  they  find  that 
the  economic  conditions  which  formerly  made  their 
work  no  worse  than  precarious  now  put  it  out  of  the 
question  altogether,  as  far  as  the  west  end  of  London 
is  concerned. 


Church  and  Theatre 

I  do  not  suppose  many  people  care  particularly. 
We  are  not  brought  up  to  care;  and  a  sense  of  the 
national  importance  of  the  theatre  is  not  born  in  man- 
kind: the  natural  man,  like  so  many  of  the  soldiers 
at  the  beginning  of  the  war,  does  not  know  what  a 
theatre  is.  But  please  note  that  all  these  soldiers  who 
did  not  know  what  a  theatre  was,  knew  what  a  church 
was.  And  they  had  been  taught  to  respect  churches. 
Nobody  had  ever  warned  them  against  a  church  as 
a  place  where  frivolous  women  paraded  in  their  best 
clothes;  where  stories  of  improper  females  like  Poti- 
phar*s  wife,  and  erotic  poetry  like  the  Song  of  Songs, 
were  read  aloud;  where  the  sensuous  and  sentimental 
music  of  Schubert,  Mendelssohn,  Gounod,  and  Brahms 
was  more  popular  than  severe  music  by  greater  com- 
posers; where  the  prettiest  sort  of  pretty  pictures  of 
pretty  saints  assailed  the  imagination  and  senses 
through    stained-glass    windows;     and    where    sculp- 


Heartbreak  House  xHx 

ture  and  architecture  came  to  the  help  of  painting. 
Nobody  ever  reminded  them  that  these  things  had 
sometimes  produced  such  developments  of  erotic 
idolatry  that  men  who  were  not  only  enthusiastic 
amateurs  of  literature,  painting,  and  music,  but 
famous  practitioners  of  them,  had  actually  exulted 
when  mobs  and  even  regular  troops  under  express 
command  had  mutilated  church  statues,  smashed 
church  windows,  wrecked  church  organs,  and  torn 
up  the  sheets  from  which  the  church  music  was  read 
and  sung.  When  they  saw  broken  statues  in  churches, 
they  were  told  that  this  was  the  work  of  wicked,  god- 
less rioters,  instead  of,  as  it  was,  the  work  partly  of 
zealots  bent  on  driving  the  world,  the  flesh,  and  the 
devil  out  of  the  temple,  and  partly  of  insurgent  men 
who  had  become  intolerably  poor  because  the  temple 
had  become  a  den  of  thieves.  But  all  the  sins  and 
perversions  that  were  so  carefully  hidden  from  them 
in  the  history  of  the  Church  were  laid  on  the  shoulders 
of  the  Theatre:  that  stuffy,  uncomfortable  place  of 
penance  in  which  we  suffer  so  much  inconvenience  on 
the  slenderest  chance  of  gaining  a  scrap  of  food  for 
our  starving  souls.  When  the  Germans  bombed  the 
Cathedral  of  Rheims  the  world  rang  with  the  horror 
of  the  sacrilege.  When  they  bombed  the  Little 
Theatre  in  the  Adelphi,  and  narrowly  missed  bomb- 
ing two  writers  of  plays  who  lived  within  a  few  yards 
of  it,  the  fact  was  not  even  mentioned  in  the  papers. 
In  point  of  appeal  to  the  senses  no  theatre  ever  built 
could  touch  the  fane  at  Rheims:  no  actress  could 
rival  its  Virgin  in  beauty,  nor  any  operatic  tenor  look 
otherwise  than  a  fool  beside  its  David.  Its  picture 
glass  was  glorious  even  to  those  who  had  seen  the 
glass  of  Chartres.  It  was  wonderful  in  its  very  gro- 
tesques: who  would  look  at  the  Blondin  Donkey  after 
seeing   its   leviathans?    In   spite  of  the  Adam-Adel- 


1  Heartbreak  House 

phian  decoration  on  which  Miss  Kingston  had  lavished 
so  much  taste  and  care,  the  Little  Theatre  was  in 
comparison  with  Rheims  the  gloomiest  of  little  con- 
venticles: indeed  the  cathedral  must,  from  the  Puritan 
point  of  view,  have  debauched  a  million  voluptuaries 
for  every  one  whom  the  Little  Theatre  had  sent  home 
thoughtful  to  a  chaste  bed  after  Mr  Chesterton's 
Magic  or  Brieux's  Les  Avaries.  Perhaps  that  is  the 
real  reason  why  the  Church  is  lauded  and  the  Theatre 
reviled.  Whether  or  no,  the  fact  remains  that  the 
lady  to  whose  public  spirit  and  sense  of  the  national 
value  of  the  theatre  I  owed  the  first  regular  public 
performance  of  a  play  of  mine  had  to  conceal  her 
action  as  if  it  had  been  a  crime,  whereas  if  she  had 
given  the  money  to  the  Church  she  would  have  worn 
a  halo  for  it.  And  I  admit,  as  I  have  always  done, 
that  this  state  of  things  may  have  been  a  very  sensible 
one.  I  have  asked  Londoners  again  and  again  why 
they  pay  half  a  guinea  to  go  to  a  theatre  when  they 
can  go  to  St.  Paul's  or  Westminster  Abbey  for  nothing. 
Their  only  possible  reply  is  that  they  want  to  see  some- 
thing new  and  possibly  something  wicked;  but  the 
theatres  mostly  disappoint  both  hopes.  If  ever  a 
revolution  makes  me  Dictator,  I  shall  establish  a  heavy 
charge  for  admission  to  our  churches.  But  everyone 
who  pays  at  the  church  door  shall  receive  a  ticket 
entitling  him  or  her  to  free  admission  to  one  perform- 
ance at  any  theatre  he  or  she  prefers.  Thus  shall 
the  sensuous  charms  of  the  church  service  be  made  to 
subsidize  the  sterner  virtue  of  the  drama. 


The  Next  Phase 

The  present  situation  will  not  last.     Although  the 
newspaper  I  read  at  breakfast  this  morning  before 


Heartbreak  House  li 

writing  these  words  contains  a  calculation  that  no 
less  than  twenty-three  wars  are  at  present  being 
waged  to  confirm  the  peace,  England  is  no  longer  in 
khaki;  and  a  violent  reaction  is  setting  in  against 
the  crude  theatrical  fare  of  the  four  terrible  years. 
Soon  the  rents  of  theatres  will  once  more  be  fixed  on 
the  assumption  that  they  cannot  always  be  full,  nor 
even  on  the  average  half  full  week  in  and  week  out. 
Prices  will  change.  The  higher  drama  will  be  at  no 
greater  disadvantage  than  it  was  before  the  war; 
and  it  may  benefit,  first,  by  the  fact  that  many  of 
us  have  been  torn  from  the  fools'  paradise  in  which  the 
theatre  formerly  traded,  and  thrust  upon  the  sternest 
realities  and  necessities  until  we  have  lost  both  faith 
in  and  patience  with  the  theatrical  pretences  that  had 
no  root  either  in  reality  or  necessity;  second,  by  the 
startling  change  made  by  the  war  in  the  distribution 
of  income.  It  seems  only  the  other  day  that  a  million- 
aire was  a  man  with  £50,000  a  year.  To-day,  when 
he  has  paid  his  income  tax  and  super  tax,  and  insured 
his  life  for  the  amount  of  his  death  duties,  he  is  lucky 
if  his  net  income  is  £10,000,  though  his  nominal  prop- 
erty remains  the  same.  And  this  is  the  result  of  a 
Budget  which  is  called  "a  respite  for  the  rich."  At 
the  other  end  of  the  scale  millions  of  persons  have 
had  regular  incomes  for  the  first  time  in  their  lives; 
and  their  men  have  been  regularly  clothed,  fed,  lodged, 
and  taught  to  make  up  their  minds  that  certain  things 
have  to  be  done,  also  for  the  first  time  in  their  lives. 
Hundreds  of  thousands  of  women  have  been  taken 
out  of  their  domestic  cages  and  tasted  both  discipline 
and  independence.  The  thoughtless  and  snobbish 
middle  classes  have  been  pulled  up  short  by  the  very 
unpleasant  experience  of  being  ruined  to  an  unprece- 
dented extent.  We  have  all  had  a  tremendous  jolt; 
and  although  the  widespread  notion  that  the  shock 


lii  Heartbreak  House 

of  the  war  would  automatically  make  a  new  heaven 
and  a  new  earth,  and  that  the  dog  would  never  go 
back  to  his  vomit  nor  the  sow  to  her  wallowing  in  the 
mire,  is  already  seen  to  be  a  delusion,  yet  we  are  far 
more  conscious  of  our  condition  than  we  were,  and 
far  less  disposed  to  submit  to  it.  Revolution,  lately 
only  a  sensational  chapter  in  history  or  a  demagogic 
claptrap,  is  now  a  possibility  so  imminent  that  hardly 
by  trying  to  suppress  it  in  other  countries  by  arms 
and  defamation,  and  calling  the  process  anti-Bolshev- 
ism, can  our  Government  stave  it  off  at  home. 

Perhaps  the  most  tragic  figure  of  the  day  is  the 
American  President  who  was  once  a  historian.  In 
those  days  it  became  his  task  to  tell  us  how,  after  that 
great  war  in  America  which  was  more  clearly  than  any 
other  war  of  our  time  a  war  for  an  idea,  the  conquerors, 
confronted  with  a  heroic  task  of  reconstruction,  turned 
recreant,  and  spent  fifteen  years  in  abusing  their 
victory  under  cover  of  pretending  to  accomplish  the 
task  they  were  doing  what  they  could  to  make  im- 
possible. Alas !  Hegel  was  right  when  he  said  that  we 
learn  from  history  that  men  never  learn  anything 
from  history.  With  what  anguish  of  mind  the  Presi- 
dent sees  that  we,  the  new  conquerors,  forgetting 
everything  we  professed  to  fight  for,  are  sitting  down 
with  watering  mouths  to  a  good  square  meal  of  ten 
years  revenge  upon  and  humiliation  of  our  prostrate 
foe,  can  only  be  guessed  by  those  who  know,  as  he 
does,  how  hopeless  is  remonstrance,  and  how  happy 
Lincoln  was  in  perishing  from  the  earth  before  his 
inspired  messages  became  scraps  of  paper.  He  knows 
well  that  from  the  Peace  Conference  will  come,  in 
spite  of  his  utmost,  no  edict  on  which  he  will  be  able, 
like  Lincoln,  to  invoke  "the  considerate  judgment  of 
mankind,  and  the  gracious  favor  of  Almighty  God." 
He  led  his  people  to  destroy  the  militarism  of  Zabern; 


Heartbreak  House  liii 

and  the  army  they  rescued  is  busy  in  Cologne  im- 
prisoning every  German  who  does  not  salute  a  British 
officer;  whilst  the  Government  at  home,  asked  whether 
it  approves,  replies  that  it  does  not  propose  even  to 
discontinue  this  Zabernism  when  the  Peace  is  con- 
cluded, but  in  effect  looks  forward  to  making  Germans 
salute  British  officers  until  the  end  of  the  world.  That 
is  what  war  makes  of  men  and  women.  It  will  wear 
off;  and  the  worst  it  threatens  is  already  proving 
impracticable;  but  before  the  humble  and  contrite 
heart  ceases  to  be  despised,  the  President  and  I,  being 
of  the  same  age,  will  be  dotards.  In  the  meantime 
there  is,  for  him,  another  history  to  write;  for  me, 
another  comedy  to  stage.  Perhaps,  after  all,  that 
is  what  wars  are  for,  and  what  historians  and  play- 
wrights are  for.  If  men  wiU  not  learn  until  their 
lessons  are  written  in  blood,  why,  blood  they  must 
have,  their  own  for  preference. 


The  Ephemeral  Thrones  and  the 
Eternal  Theatre 

To  the  theatre  it  will  not  matter.""  Whatever  Bas- 
tilles fall,  the  theatre  will  stand.  Apostolic  Hapsburg 
has  collapsed;  All  Highest  HohenzoUern  languishes 
in  Holland,  threatened  with  trial  on  a  capital  charge 
of  fighting  for  his  country  against  England;  Im- 
perial Romanoff,  said  to  have  perished  miserably  by 
a  more  summary  method  of  murder,  is  perhaps  alive 
or  perhaps  dead:  nobody  cares  more  than  if  he  had 
been  a  peasant;  the  lord  of  Hellas  is  level  with  his 
lackeys  in  republican  Switzerland;  Prime  Ministers 
and  Commanders-in-Chief  have  passed  from  a  brief 
glory  as  Solons  and  Caesars  into  failure  and  obscurity 
as  closely  on  one  another's  heels  as  the  descendants 


liv  Heartbreak  House 

of  Banquo;  but  Euripides  and  Aristophanes,  Shake- 
speare and  Moliere,  Goethe  and  Ibsen  remain  fixed  in 
their  everlasting  seats. 


How  War  muzzles  the  Dramatic 
Poet 

As  for  myself,  why,  it  may  be  asked,  did  I  not  write 
two  plays  about  the  war  instead  of  two  pamphlets  on 
it?  The  answer  is  significant.  You  cannot  make  war 
on  war  and  on  your  neighbor  at  the  same  time.  War 
cannot  bear  the  terrible  castigation  of  comedy,  the 
ruthless  light  of  laughter  that  glares  on  the  stage. 
When  men  are  heroically  dying  for  their  country, 
it  is  not  the  time  to  show  their  lovers  and  wives  and 
fathers  and  mothers  how  they  are  being  sacrificed 
to  the  blunders  of  boobies,  the  cupidity  of  capitalists, 
the  ambition  of  conquerors,  the  electioneering  of 
demagogues,  the  Pharisaism  of  patriots,  the  lusts 
and  lies  and  rancors  and  bloodthirsts  that  love  war 
because  it  opens  their  prison  doors,  and  sets  them  in 
the  thrones  of  power  and  popularity.  For  unless 
these  things  are  mercilessly  exposed  they  will  hide 
under  the  mantle  of  the  ideals  on  the  stage  just  as 
they  do  in  real  life. 

And  though  there  may  be  better  things  to  reveal, 
it  may  not,  and  indeed  cannot,  be  militarily  expedient 
to  reveal  them  whilst  the  issue  is  still  in  the  balance. 
Truth  telling  is  not  compatible  with  the  defence  of 
the  realm.  We  are  just  now  reading  the  revelations 
of  our  generals  and  admirals,  unmuzzled  at  last  by  the 
armistice.  During  the  war,  General  A,  in  his  moving 
despatches  from  the  field,  told  how  General  B  had 
covered  himself  with  deathless  glory  in  such  and  such 
a  battle.    He  now  tells  us  that  General  B  came  within 


Heartbreak  House  Iv 

an  ace  of  losing  us  the  war  by  disobeying  his  orders 
on  that  occasion,  and  fighting  instead  of  running 
away  as  he  ought  to  have  done.  An  excellent  sub- 
ject for  comedy  now  that  the  war  is  over,  no  doubt; 
but  if  General  A  had  let  this  out  at  the  time,  what 
would  have  been  the  effect  on  General  B's  soldiers? 
And  had  the  stage  made  known  what  the  Prime  Minis- 
ter and  the  Secretary  of  State  for  War  who  overruled 
General  A  thought  of  him,  and  what  he  thought  of 
them,  as  now  revealed  in  raging  controversy,  what 
would  have  been  the  effect  on  the  nation?  That  is 
why  comedy,  though  sorely  tempted,  had  to  be  loyally 
silent;  for  the  art  of  the  dramatic  poet  knows  no 
patriotism;  recognizes  no  obligation  but  truth  to 
natural  history;  cares  not  whether  Germany  or  Eng- 
land perish;  is  ready  to  cry  with  Brynhild,  "Lass'uns 
verderben,  lachend  zu  grunde  geh*n"  sooner  than 
deceive  or  be  deceived;  and  thus  becomes  in  time  of 
war  a  greater  military  danger  than  poison,  steel,  or 
trinitrotoluene.  That  is  why  I  had  to  withhold 
Heartbreak  House  from  the  footlights  during  the 
war;  for  the  Germans  might  on  any  night  have  turned 
the  last  act  from  play  into  earnest,  and  even  then 
might  not  have  waited  for  their  cues. 

June,  1919. 


HEARTBREAK  HOUSE 

ACT  I 

The  hilly  country  in  the  middle  of  the  north  edge  of 
SusseXy  looking  very  pleasant  on  a  fine  evening  at  the 
end  of  September,  is  seen  through  the  udndows  of  a 
room  which  has  been  built  so  as  to  resemble  the  after 
part  of  an  old-fashioned  high-pooped  ship  with  a  stern 
gallery;  for  the  windows  are  ship  built  with  heavy  tim- 
bering,  and  run  right  across  the  room  as  continuously 
as  the  stability  of  the  wall  allows.  A  row  of  lockers 
under  the  windows  provides  an  unupholstered  window- 
seat  interrupted  by  twin  glass  doors,  respectively  half- 
way between  the  stern  post  and  the  sides.  Another  door 
strains  the  illusion  a  little  by  being  apparently  in  the 
ship's  port  side,  and  yet  leading,  not  to  the  open  sea, 
but  to  the  entrance  hall  of  the  house.  Between  this  door 
and  the  stern  gallery  are  bookshelves.  There  are  electric 
light  switches  beside  the  door  leading  to  the  hall  and  the 
glass  doors  in  the  stern  gallery.  Against  the  starboard 
wall  is  a  carpenter's  bench.  The  vice  has  a  board  in 
its  jaws;  and  the  floor  is  littered  with  shavings,  over- 
flowing from  a  waste-paper  basket.  A  couple  of  planes 
and  a  centrebit  are  on  the  bench.  In  the  same  wall,  be- 
tween the  bench  and  the  windows,  is  a  narrow  doorway 
with  a  half  door,  above  which  a  glimpse  of  the  room 
beyond  shows  that  it  is  a  shelved  pantry  with  bottles  and 
kitchen  crockery. 


2  Heartbreak  House  Act  1 

On  the  starboard  side,  but  close  to  the  middle,  is  a  plain 
oak  drawing-table  with  drawing-board,  T-square,  straight- 
edges, set  squares,  mathematical  instruments,  saucers  of 
water  color,  a  tumbler  of  discolored  water,  Indian  ink, 
pencils,  and  brushes  on  it.  The  drawing-board  is  set 
so  that  the  draughtsman's  chair  has  the  vnndow  on  its 
left  hand.  On  the  floor  at  the  end  of  the  table,  on  his 
right,  is  a  ship's  fire  bucket.  On  the  port  side  of  the 
room,  near  the  bookshelves,  is  a  sofa  with  its  back  to  the 
windows.  It  is  a  sturdy  mahogany  article,  oddly  up- 
holstered in  sailcloth,  including  the  bolster,  with  a  couple 
of  blankets  hanging  over  the  back.  Between  the  sofa 
and  the  drawing-table  is  a  big  wicker  chair,  with  broad 
arms  and  a  low  sloping  back,  with  its  back  to  the  light. 
A  small  but  stout  table  of  teak,  with  a  round  top  and  gate 
legs,  stands  against  the  port  wall  between  the  door  and 
the  bookcase.  It  is  the  only  article  in  the  room  that 
suggests  {not  at  all  convincingly)  a  woman's  hand  in  the 
furnishing.  The  uncarpeted  floor  of  narrow  boards  is 
caulked  and  holystoned  like  a  deck. 

The  garden  to  which  the  glass  doors  lead  dips  to  the 
south  before  the  landscape  rises  again  to  the  hills.  Emerg- 
ing from  the  hollow  is  the  cupola  of  an  observatory.  Be- 
tween the  observatory  and  the  house  is  a  flagstaff  on  a 
little  esplanade,  with  a  hammock  on  the  east  side  and  a 
long  garden  seat  on  the  west. 

A  young  lady,  gloved  and  hatted,  with  a  dust  coat  on, 
is  sitting  in  the  window-seat  with  her  body  twisted  to 
enable  her  to  look  out  of  the  view.  One  hand  props  her 
chin:  the  other  hangs  dovm  with  a  volume  of  the  Temple 
Shakespeare  in  it,  and  her  finger  stuck  in  the  page  she 
has  been  reading. 

A  clock  strikes  six. 

The  young  lady  turns  and  looks  at  her  watch.  She 
rises  with  an  air  of  one  who  waits  and  is  almost  at  the 
end  of  her  patience.     She  is  a  pretty  girl,  slender,  fair. 


Act  1  Heartbreak  House  3 

and  intelligent  looking,  nicely  but  not  expensively  dressed, 
evidently  not  a  smart  idler. 

With  a  sigh  of  weary  resignation  she  comes  to  the 
draughtsman's  chair;  sits  down;  and  begins  to  read 
Shakespeare.  Presently  the  book  sinks  to  her  lap;  her 
eyes  close;   and  she  dozes  into  a  slumber. 

An  elderly  womanservant  comes  in  from  the  hall  toith 
three  unopened  bottles  of  rum  on  a  tray.  She  passes 
through  and  disappears  in  the  pantry  without  noticing 
the  young  lady.  She  places  the  bottles  on  the  shelf  and 
fills  her  tray  with  empty  bottles.  As  she  returns  with 
these,  the  young  lady  lets  her  book  drop,  awakening  her- 
self,  and  startling  the  womanservant  so  that  she  all  but 
lets  the  tray  fall. 

THi  WOMANSERVANT.  God  blcss  us!  [^The  young 
lady  picks  up  the  book  and  places  it  on  the  table.']  Sorry 
to  wake  you,  miss,  I'm  sure;  but  you  are  a  stranger 
to  me.    What  might  you  be  waiting  here  for  now.^ 

THE  YOUNG  LADY.  Waiting  for  somebody  to  show 
some  signs  of  knowing  that  I  have  been  invited  here. 

THE  WOMANSERVANT.  Oh,  you're  invited,  are  you? 
And  has  nobody  come?    Dear!  dear! 

THE  YOUNG  LADY.  A  wild-lookiug  old  gentleman 
came  and  looked  in  at  the  window;  and  I  heard  him 
calling  out,  "Nurse,  there  is  a  young  and  attractive 
female  waiting  in  the  poop.  Go  and  see  what  she 
wants."    Are  you  the  nurse? 

THE  WOMANSERVANT.  Yes,  miss:  I'm  Nurse  Guin- 
ness. That  was  old  Captain  Shotover,  Mrs  Hush- 
abye's  father.  I  heard  him  roaring;  but  I  thought  it 
was  for  something  else.  I  suppose  it  was  Mrs  Hush- 
abye  that  invited  you,  ducky? 

THE  YOUNG  LADY.  I  understood  her  to  do  so.  But 
really  I  think  I'd  better  go. 

NURSE  GUINNESS.    Oh,  don't  think  of  such  a  thing, 


4  Heartbreak  House  Act  1 

miss.  If  Mrs  Hushabye  has  forgotten  all  about  it, 
it  will  be  a  pleasant  surprise  for  her  to  see  you,  won't 
it? 

THE  YOUNG  LADY.  It  has  been  a  very  unpleasant 
surprise  to  me  to  find  that  nobody  expects  me. 

NURSE  GUINNESS.  You'll  get  uscd  to  it,  miss:  this 
house  is  full  of  surprises  for  them  that  don't  know  our 
ways. 

CAPTAIN  SHOTOVER  [looMug  in  from  the  hall  sud- 
denly: an  ancient  but  still  hardy  man  with  an  immense 
white  heard,  in  a  reefer  jacket  with  a  whistle  hanging 
frrnn  his  nec]z\.  Nurse,  there  is  a  hold-all  and  a  hand- 
bag on  the  front  steps  for  everybody  to  fall  over. 
Also  a  tennis  racquet.     Who  the  devil  left  them  there.? 

THE  YOUNG  LADY.    They  are  mine,  I'm  afraid. 

THE  CAPTAIN  [advancing  to  the  drawing-tahle^.  Nurse, 
who  is  this  misguided  and  unfortunate  young  lady? 

NURSE  GUINNESS.  She  says  Miss  Hessy  invited  her,  sir. 

THE  CAPTAIN.  And  had  she  no  friend,  no  parents, 
to  warn  her  against  my  daughter's  invitations?  This 
is  a  pretty  sort  of  house,  by  heavens!  A  young  and 
attractive  lady  is  invited  here.  Her  luggage  is  left 
on  the  steps  for  hours;  and  she  herseK  is  deposited 
in  the  poop  and  abandoned,  tired  and  starving.  This 
is  our  hospitaUty.  These  are  our  manners.  No 
room  ready.  No  hot  water.  No  welcoming  hostess. 
Our  visitor  is  to  sleep  in  the  toolshed,  and  to  wash  in 
the  duckpond. 

NURSE  GUINNESS.  Now  it's  all  right.  Captain:  I'll 
get  the  lady  some  tea;  and  her  room  shall  be  ready 
before  she  has  finished  it.  [To  the  young  lady^  Take 
off  your  hat,  ducky;  and  make  yourself  at  home  \_she 
goes  to  the  door  leading  to  the  halt}. 

THE  CAPTAIN  \_as  she  passes  him}.  Ducky!  Do  you 
suppose,  woman,  that  because  this  young  lady  has 
been  insulted  and  neglected,  you  have  the  right  to 


Act  1  Heartbreak  House  5 

address  her  as  you  address  my  wretched  children, 
whom  you  have  brought  up  in  ignorance  of  the  com- 
monest decencies  of  social  intercourse? 

NURSE  GUINNESS.  Ncvcr  mind  him,  doty.  \jQuite 
unconcernedy  she  goes  out  into  the  hall  on  her  way  to 
the  kitchen.~\ 

THE  CAPTAIN.  Madam,  will  you  favor  me  with 
your  name?    [He  sits  down  in  the  big  wicker  chair.'] 

THE  YOUNG  LADY.    My  name  is  EUie  Dunn. 

THE  CAPTAIN.  Dunn!  I  had  a  boatswain  whose 
name  was  Dunn.  He  was  originally  a  pirate  in  China. 
He  set  up  as  a  ship's  chandler  with  stores  which  I  have 
every  reason  to  believe  he  stole  from  me.  No  doubt 
he  became  rich.    Are  you  his  daughter? 

ELLiE  [indignant'}.  No,  certainly  not.  I  am  proud  to 
be  able  to  say  that  though  my  father  has  not  been  a 
successful  man,  nobody  has  ever  had  one  word  to  say 
against  him.  I  think  my  father  is  the  best  man  I 
have  ever  known. 

THE  CAPTAIN.  He  must  be  greatly  changed.  Has 
he  attained  the  seventh  degree  of  concentration? 

ELLIE.    I  don't  understand. 

THE  CAPTAIN.  But  how  could  he,  with  a  daughter? 
I,  madam,  have  two  daughters.  One  of  them  is 
Hesione  Hushabye,  who  invited  you  here.  I  keep  this 
house:  she  upsets  it.  I  desire  to  attain  the  seventh 
degree  of  concentration:  she  invites  visitors  and  leaves 
me  to  entertain  them.  [Nurse  Guinness  returns  with 
the  tea-tray,  which  she  places  on  the  teak  table.']  I  have 
a  second  daughter  who  is,  thank  God,  in  a  remote 
part  of  the  Empire  with  her  numskull  of  a  husband. 
As  a  child  she  thought  the  figure-head  of  my  ship,  the 
Dauntless,  the  most  beautiful  thing  on  earth.  He  re- 
sembled it.  He  had  the  same  expression:  wooden 
yet  enterprising.  She  married  him,  and  will  never  set 
foot  in  this  house  again. 


6  Heartbreak  House  Act  1 

NURSE  GUINNESS  [carrying  the  table,  vnili  the  tea- 
things  on  it,  to  Ellie^s  side'].  Indeed  you  never  were 
more  mistaken.  She  is  in  England  this  very  moment. 
You  have  been  told  three  times  this  week  that  she 
is  coming  home  for  a  year  for  her  health.  And  very- 
glad  you  should  be  to  see  your  own  daughter  again 
after  all  these  years. 

THE  CAPTAIN.  I  am  uot  glad.  The  natural  term 
of  the  affection  of  the  human  animal  for  its  offspring 
is  six  years.  My  daughter  Ariadne  was  born  when 
I  was  forty-six.  I  am  now  eighty-eight.  If  she 
comes,  I  am  not  at  home.  If  she  wants  anything, 
let  her  take  it.  If  she  asks  for  me,  let  her  be  informed 
that  I  am  extremely  old,  and  have  totally  forgotten  her. 

NURSE  GUINNESS.  That's  no  talk  to  offer  to  a  young 
lady.  Here,  ducky,  have  some  tea;  and  don't  listen 
to  him  [she  pours  out  a  cup  of  tea]. 

THE  CAPTAIN  [Hsing  vrrathfuUy].  Now  before  high 
heaven  they  have  given  this  innocent  child  Indian 
tea:  the  stuff  they  tan  their  own  leather  insides  with. 
[He  seizes  the  cup  and  the  tea-pot  and  empties  both  into 
the  leathern  bvxiket^ 

ELLIE  [almost  in  tears].  Oh,  please!  I  am  so  tired.  I 
should  have  been  glad  of  anything. 

NURSE  GUINNESS.  Oh,  what  a  thing  to  do!  The 
poor  lamb  is  ready  to  drop. 

THE  CAPTAIN.  You  shall  havc  some  of  my  tea- 
Do  not  touch  that  fly-blown  cake:  nobody  eats  it 
here  except  the  dogs.     [He  disappears  into  the  pantry^ 

NURSE  GUINNESS.  There's  a  man  for  you!  They  say 
he  sold  himself  to  the  devil  in  Zanzibar  before  he  was 
a  captain;  and  the  older  he  grows  the  more  I  believe 
them. 

A  woman's  voice  [in  the  hall].  Is  anyone  at  home? 
Hesione!  Nurse!  Papa!  Do  come,  somebody;  and 
take  in  my  luggage. 


Act  1  Heartbreak  House  7 

Thumping  heardy  as  of  an  umbrella,  on  the  wainscot. 

NURSE  GUINNESS.  My  gracious!  It's  Miss  Addy, 
Lady  Utterword,  Mrs  Hushabye's  sister:  the  one  I 
told  the  captain  about.  [^Calling.']  Coming,  Miss, 
coming. 

She  carries  the  table  back  to  its  place  by  the  door  and 
is  hurrying  out  when  slie  is  intercepted  by  Lady  Utter- 
wordy  who  bursts  in  mu^h  flustered.  Lady  Utterword, 
a  blonde,  is  very  handsome,  very  well  dressed,  and  so 
precipitate  in  speech  and  action  that  the  first  impression 
(erroneous)  is  one  of  comic  silliness. 

LADY  UTTERWORD.  Oh,  is  that  you.  Nurse?  How 
are  you?  You  don't  look  a  day  older.  Is  nobody  at 
home?  Where  is  Hesione?  Doesn't  she  expect  me? 
Where  are  the  servants?  Whose  luggage  is  that  on 
the  steps?  Where's  papa?  Is  everybody  asleep? 
[^Seeing  Ellie.']  Oh!  I  beg  your  pardon.  I  suppose  you 
are  one  of  my  nieces.  [^Approaching  her  with  out- 
stretched arms.'}     Come  and  kiss  your  aunt,  darling. 

ELLIE.  I'm  only  a  visitor.  It  is  my  luggage  on  the 
steps. 

NURSE  GUINNESS.  I'll  go  get  you  some  fresh  tea, 
ducky.    [She  takes  up  the  tray.} 

ELLIE.  But  the  old  gentleman  said  he  would  make 
some  himself. 

NURSE  GUINNESS.  Blcss  you!  hc's  forgotten  what 
he  went  for  already.  His  mind  wanders  from  one 
thing  to  another. 

LADY  UTTERWORD.     Papa,  I  SUppOSC? 
NURSE  GUINNESS.      YcS,  Miss. 

LADY  UTTERWORD  [vehemently}.  Don't  be  silly.  Nurse. 
Don't  call  me  Miss. 

NURSE  GUINNESS  [placidly}.  No,  lovey  [she  goes  out 
vnth  the  tea-tray}. 

LADY  UTTERWORD  [sitting  dowu  vnth  a  flounce  on  the 
sofa}.  1  know  what  you  must  feel.     Oh,  this  house, 


8  Heartbreak  House  Act  1 

this  house!  I  come  back  to  it  after  twenty-three 
years;  and  it  is  just  the  same:  the  luggage  lying  on 
the  steps,  the  servants  spoilt  and  impossible,  nobody 
at  home  to  receive  anybody,  no  regular  meals,  no- 
body ever  hungry  because  they  are  always  gnawing 
bread  and  butter  or  munching  apples,  and,  what  is 
worse,  the  same  disorder  in  ideas,  in  talk,  in  feeling. 
When  I  was  a  child  I  was  used  to  it:  I  had  never 
known  anything  better,  though  I  was  unhappy,  and 
longed  all  the  time  —  oh,  how  I  longed!  —  to  be 
respectable,  to  be  a  lady,  to  live  as  others  did,  not  to 
have  to  think  of  everything  for  myself.  I  married  at 
nineteen  to  escape  from  it.  My  husband  is  Sir  Hast- 
ings Utterword,  who  has  been  governor  of  all  the 
crown  colonies  in  succession.  I  have  always  been 
the  mistress  of  Government  House.  I  have  been  so 
happy:  I  had  forgotten  that  people  could  hve  like 
this.  I  wanted  to  see  my  father,  my  sister,  my 
nephews  and  nieces  (one  ought  to,  you  know),  and  I 
was  looking  forward  to  it.  And  now  the  state  of  the 
house!  the  way  I'm  received!  the  casual  impudence 
of  that  woman  Guinness,  our  old  nurse !  really  Hesione 
might  at  least  have  been  here:  some  preparation 
might  have  been  made  for  me.  You  must  excuse  my 
going  on  in  this  way;  but  I  am  really  very  much  hurt 
and  annoyed  and  disillusioned:  and  if  I  had  realized 
it  was  to  be  like  this,  I  wouldn't  have  come.  I  have 
a  great  mind  to  go  away  without  another  word  [^she 
is  on  the  point  of  weeping^. 

ELLiE  [^also  very  miserable'].  Nobody  has  been  here  to 
receive  me  either.  I  thought  I  ought  to  go  away  too. 
But  how  can  I,  Lady  Utterword?  My  luggage  is 
on  the  steps;   and  the  station  fly  has  gone. 

The  captain  emerges  from  the  pantry  with  a  tray  of 
Chinese  lacquer  and  a  very  fine  tea-set  on  it.  He  rests 
it  provisionally  on  the  end  of  the  table;   snatches  away 


Act  1  Heartbreak  House  9 

the  drawing-hoard,  which  he  stands  on  the  floor  against 
table  legs;  and  puts  the  tray  in  the  space  thus  cleared. 
Ellie  pours  out  a  cup  greedily. 

THE  CAPTAIN.  YouF  tea,  young  lady.  What! 
another  lady!  I  must  fetch  another  cup  [he  makes 
far  the  pantry']- 

liADY  UTTERWORD  [rising  from  the  sofa,  suffused  with 
emotion].  Papa!  Don't  you  know  me.'^  I'm  your 
daughter. 

THE  CAPTAIN.  Nousense!  my  daughter's  upstairs 
asleep.    [He  vanishes  through  the  half  door.] 

Lady  Utterword  retires  to  the  window  to  conceal  her  tears, 

ELLIE  [going  to  her  with  the  cup].  Don't  be  so  dis- 
tressed. Have  this  cup  of  tea.  He  is  very  old  and 
very  strange:  he  has  been  just  like  that  to  me.  I 
know  how  dreadful  it  must  be:  my  owti  father  is  all 
the  world  to  me.     Oh,  I'm  sure  he  didn't  mean  it. 

The  captain  returns  with  another  cup. 

THE  CAPTAIN.  Now  we  are  complete.  [He  places 
it  on  the  tray.] 

LADY  UTTERWORD  [A^/^^mcaZZ/y],  Papa,  you  can't  have 
forgotten  me.  I  am  Ariadne.  I'm  little  Paddy  Pat- 
kins.  Won't  you  kiss  me?  [She  goes  to  him  and  throws 
her  arms  round  his  neck.] 

THE  CAPTAIN  [woodeuly  enduring  her  embrace].  How 
can  you  be  Ariadne?  You  are  a  middle-aged  woman: 
well  preserved,  madam,  but  no  longer  young. 

LADY  UTTERWORD.  But  think  of  all  the  years  and 
years  I  have  been  away.  Papa.  I  have  had  to  grow 
old,  like  other  people. 

THE  CAPTAIN  [disengaging  himself].  You  should  grow 
out  of  kissing  strange  men:  they  may  be  striving  to 
attain  the  seventh  degree  of  concentration. 

LADY  UTTERWORD.  But  I'm  your  daughter.  You 
haven't  seen  me  for  years. 

THE  CAPTAIN.    So  much  the  worse!    When  our  rela- 


10  Heartbreak  House  Act  1 

tives  are  at  home,  we  have  to  think  of  all  their  good 
points  or  it  would  be  impossible  to  endure  them. 
But  when  they  are  away,  we  console  ourselves  for 
their  absence  by  dwelling  on  their  vices.  That  is 
how  I  have  come  to  think  my  absent  daughter  Ariadne 
a  perfect  fiend;  so  do  not  try  to  ingratiate  yourself 
here  by  impersonating  her  [he  walks  firmly  away  to 
the  other  side  of  the  roorri]. 

LADY  UTTERWORD.  Ingratiating  myseK  indeed! 
[With  dignity.']  Very  well,  papa.  [She  sits  down  at 
the  drawing-table  and  pours  out  tea  for  herself.] 

THE  CAPTAIN.  I  am  neglecting  my  social  duties. 
You  remember  Dunn?  Billy  Dunn? 

LADY  UTTERWORD.  Do  you  mean  that  villainous 
sailor  who  robbed  you? 

THE  CAPTAIN  [introducing  Ellie'].  His  daughter. 
[He  sits  down  on  the  sofa.] 

ELLIE  [protesting].    No  — 

Nurse  Guinness  returns  with  fresh  tea, 

THE  CAPTAIN.  Take  that  hogwash  away.  Do  you 
hear? 

NURSE.  You've  actually  remembered  about  the  tea ! 
[To  Ellie.]  Oh,  miss,  he  didn't  forget  you  after  all!  You 
have  made  an  impression. 

THE  CAPTAIN  [glo&mily].  Youth!  beauty!  novelty! 
They  are  badly  wanted  in  this  house.  I  am  exces- 
sively old.  Hesione  is  only  moderately  young.  Her 
children  are  not  youthful. 

LADY  UTTERWORD.  How  Can  children  be  expected 
to  be  youthful  in  this  house?  Almost  before  we  could 
speak  we  were  filled  with  notions  that  might  have 
been  all  very  well  for  pagan  philosophers  of  fifty, 
but  were  certainly  quite  unfit  for  respectable  people 
of  any  age. 

NURSE.  You  were  always  for  respectability,  IViiss 
Addy. 


Act  1  Heartbreak  House  11 

LADY  UTTERWORD.  Nursc,  will  you  plcase  remember 
that  I  am  Lady  Utterword,  and  not  Miss  Addy,  nor 
lovey,  nor  darling,  nor  doty?    Do  you  hear? 

NURSE.  Yes,  ducky:  all  right.  I'll  tell  them  all 
they  must  call  you  My  lady.  ^She  takes  her  tray  out 
with  undisturbed  placidity  r\ 

LADY  UTTERWORD.  What  comfort?  what  sense  is 
there  in  having  servants  with  no  manners? 

ELLiE  [rising  and  coming  to  the  table  to  put  down  her 
empty  cup'].  Lady  Utterword,  do  you  think  Mrs  Hush- 
abye  really  expects  me? 

LADY  UTTERWORD.  Oh,  dou't  ask  me.  You  can  see  for 
yourself  that  IVe  just  arrived;  her  only  sister,  after 
twenty-three  years'  absence!  and  it  seems  that  /  am 
not  expected. 

THE  CAPTAIN.  What  docs  it  matter  whether  the 
young  lady  is  expected  or  not?  She  is  welcome. 
There  are  beds:  there  is  food.  I'll  find  a  room  for  her 
myself  [he  makes  for  the  door]. 

ELLIE  [following  him  to  stop  him].  Oh,  please — [He 
goes  out.]  Lady  Utterword,  I  don't  know  what  to  do. 
Your  father  persists  in  believing  that  my  father  is  some 
sailor  who  robbed  him. 

LADY  UTTERWORD.  You  had  better  pretend  not  to 
notice  it.  My  father  is  a  very  clever  man;  but  he 
always  forgot  things;  and  now  that  he  is  old,  of  course 
he  is  worse.  And  I  must  warn  you  that  it  is  some- 
times very  hard  to  feel  quite  sure  that  he  really  forgets. 

Mrs  Hushabye  bursts  into  the  room  tempestuously  and 
embraces  Ellie.  She  is  a  couple  of  years  older  than  Lady 
Utterword,  and  even  better  looking.  She  has  magnificent 
black  hair,  eyes  like  the  fishpools  of  Heshbon,  and  a  nobly 
modelled  neck,  short  at  the  back  and  low  between  her 
shoulders  in  front.  Unlike  her  sister  she  is  uncorseted 
and  dressed  anyhow  in  a  rich  robe  of  black  pile  that  shows 
off  her  white  skin  and  statuesque  contour. 


12  Heartbreak  House  Act  1 

MRS  HUSH AB YE.  Ellie,  my  darling,  my  pettikins 
[^kissing  her],  how  long  have  you  been  here?  I've  been 
at  home  all  the  time :  I  was  putting  flowers  and  things 
in  your  room;  and  when  I  just  sat  down  for  a  moment 
to  try  how  comfortable  the  armchair  was  I  went  off  to 
sleep.  Papa  woke  me  and  told  me  you  were  here. 
Fancy  your  finding  no  one,  and  being  neglected  and 
abandoned.  [_Kissing  her  again. ~\  My  poor  love! 
[_She  deposits  Ellie  on  the  sofa.  Meanwhile  Ariadne  has 
left  the  table  and  come  over  to  claim  her  share  of  attention.] 
Oh!  youVe  brought  someone  with  you.  Introduce 
me. 

LADY  UTTERWORD.  Hcsionc,  Is  it  possiblc  that  you 
don't  know  me? 

MRS  HUSH  AB  YE  [conventionally].  Of  course  I  remember 
your  face  quite  well.     Where  have  we  met.f^ 

LADY  UTTERWORD.  Didn't  Papa  tell  you  I  was  here? 
Oh!  this  is  really  too  much.  \_She  throws  herself  sulkily 
into  the  big  chair.] 

MRS  HUSH  AB  YE.    Papa! 

LADY  UTTERWORD.  Ycs,  Papa.  Our  papa,  you  un- 
feeling wretch!  {Rising  angrily.]  I'll  go  straight  to  a 
hotel. 

MRS  HUSHABYE  [scizing  her  by  the  shoulders].  My  good- 
ness gracious  goodness,  you  don't  mean  to  say  that 
you're  Addy! 

LADY  UTTERWORD.  I  Certainly  am  Addy;  and  I  don't 
think  I  can  be  so  changed  that  you  would  not  have 
recognized  me  if  you  had  any  real  affection  for  me. 
And  Papa  didn't  think  me  even  worth  mentioning! 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  What  a  lark !  Sit  down  \_she  pushes 
her  back  into  the  chair  instead  of  kissing  her,  and  posts 
herself  behind  it].  You  do  look  a  swell.  You're  much 
handsomer  than  you  used  to  be.  You've  made  the 
acquaintance  of  Ellie,  of  course.  She  is  going  to 
marry  a  perfect  hog  of  a  millionaire  for  the  sake  of  her 


Act  1  Heartbreak  House  13 

father,  who  is  as  poor  as  a  church  mouse;  and  you 
must  help  me  to  stop  her. 

ELLiE.     Oh,  please,  Hesione! 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  My  pcttikius,  the  man's  coming 
here  today  with  your  father  to  begin  persecuting  you; 
and  everybody  will  see  the  state  of  the  case  in  ten 
minutes;  so  what's  the  use  of  making  a  secret  of  it? 

ELLIE.  He  is  not  a  hog,  Hesione.  You  don't  know 
how  wonderfully  good  he  was  to  my  father,  and  how 
deeply  grateful  I  am  to  him. 

MRS  HUSHABYE  [to  Lady  Utterword}.  Her  father  is  a 
very  remarkable  man,  Addy.  His  name  is  Mazzini 
Dunn.  Mazzini  was  a  celebrity  of  some  kind  who 
knew  EUie's  grandparents.  They  were  both  poets,  like 
the  Brownings;  and  when  her  father  came  into  the 
world  Mazzini  said,  "Another  soldier  born  for  free- 
dom!" So  they  christened  him  Mazzini;  and  he  has 
been  fighting  for  freedom  in  his  quiet  way  ever  since. 
That's  why  he  is  so  poor. 

ELLIE.     I  am  proud  of  his  poverty. 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  Of  coursc  you  are,  pettikins.  Why 
not  leave  him  in  it,  and  marry  someone  you  love? 

LADY  UTTERWORD  [rising  suddenly  and  explosively^* 
Hesione,  are  you  going  to  kiss  me  or  are  you  not? 

MRS  HUSHABYE.     What  do  you  want  to  be  kissed  for? 

LADY  UTTERWORD.  I  donH  Want  to  be  kissed;  but  I 
do  want  you  to  behave  properly  and  decently.  We 
are  sisters.  We  have  been  separated  for  twenty-three 
years.     You  ought  to  kiss  me. 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  To-morrow  morning,  dear,  before 
you  make  up.     I  hate  the  smell  of  powder. 

LADY  UTTERWOOD.  Oh !  you  Unfeeling  —  [she  is  in- 
terrupted by  the  return  of  the  captain^. 

THE  CAPTAIN  [to  Ellie~].  Your  room  is  ready.  [Ellie 
rises 7\  The  sheets  were  damp;  but  I  have  changed 
them  [he  makes  for  the  garden  door  on  the  port  side~\. 


14  Heartbreak  House  Act  1 

LADY  UTTER  WORD.    Oh!  What  about  771?/ shects? 

THE  CAPTAIN  [halting  at  the  door'].  Take  my  advice: 
air  them :  or  take  them  off  and  sleep  in  blankets.  You 
shall  sleep  in  Ariadne's  old  room. 

LADY  UTTER  WORD.  Indeed  I  shall  do  nothing  of  the 
sort.  That  little  hole!  I  am  entitled  to  the  best 
spare  room. 

THE  CAPTAIN  [continuing  unmoved].  She  married  a 
numskull.  She  told  me  she  would  marry  anyone  to 
get  away  from  home. 

LADT  UTTERWORD.  You  are  pretending  not  to  know 
me  on  purpose.     I  will  leave  the  house. 

Mazzini  Dunn  enters  from  the  hall.  He  is  a  little 
elderly  man  with  bulging  credulous  eyes  and  earnest  man- 
ners. He  is  dressed  in  a  blue  serge  jacket  suit  with  an 
unbuttoned  mackintosh  over  ity  and  carries  a  soft  black 
hat  of  clerical  cut. 

ELLiE.    At  last!   Captain  Shotover,  here  is  my  father. 

THE  CAPTAIN.  This!  Nonsense!  not  a  bit  like  him 
[he  goes  away  through  the  garden^  shutting  the  door 
sharply  behind  him]. 

LADY  UTTERWORD.  I  will  not  be  ignored  and  pre- 
tended to  be  somebody  else.  I  will  have  it  out  with 
Papa  now,  this  instant.  [To  Mazzini.]  Excuse  me. 
[She  follows  the  captain  outy  making  a  hasty  bow  to  Maz- 
ziniy  who  returns  iti] 

MRS  HUSH AB YE  [hospitably  shaking  hands].  How  good 
of  you  to  come,  Mr  Dunn !  You  don't  mind  Papa,  do 
you?  He  is  as  mad  as  a  hatter,  you  know,  but  quite 
harmless  and  extremely  clever.  You  will  have  some 
delightful  talks  with  him. 

MAZZINI.  I  hope  so.  [To  Ellie.]  So  here  you  are, 
EUie,  dear.  [He  draws  her  arm  affectionately  through 
his.]  I  must  thank  you,  Mrs  Hushabye,  for  your 
kindness  to  my  daughter.  I'm  afraid  she  would  have 
had  no  holiday  if  you  had  not  invited  her. 


Act  1  Heartbreak  House  15 

MRS  HUSH AB YE.  Not  at  all.  Very  nice  of  her  to 
come  and  attract  young  people  to  the  house  for  us. 

MAZZiNi  [^smiling'].  I'm  afraid  Ellie  is  not  interested  in 
young  men,  Mrs  Hushabye.  Her  taste  is  on  the 
graver,  solider  side. 

MRS  HUSHABYE  [witk  a  suddeu  rather  hard  brightness 
in  her  manner^.  Won't  you  take  off  your  overcoat,  Mr 
Dunn.?^  You  will  find  a  cupboard  for  coats  and  hats 
and  things  in  the  corner  of  the  hall. 

MAZZINI  [hastily  releasing  Ellie^.  Yes  —  thank  you  — 
I  had  better  —  [he  goes  out^. 

MRS  HUSHABYE  [emphatically^.    The  old  brute! 

ELLIE.    Who? 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  Who!  Him.  He.  It  [^pointing 
after  Mazzini'].     "Graver,  solider  tastes,*'  indeed! 

ELLIE  [aghast'].  You  don't  mean  that  you  were  speak- 
ing like  that  of  my  father! 

MRS  HUSHABYE.    I  was.    You  know  I  was. 

ELLIE  [with  dignity'].  I  will  leave  your  house  at  once. 
[She  turns  to  the  door.] 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  If  you  attempt  it,  I'll  tell  your 
father  why. 

ELLIE  [turning  again].  Oh !  How  can  you  treat  a  vis- 
itor hke  this,  Mrs  Hushabye? 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  I  thought  you  wcrc  going  to  call 
me  Hesione. 

ELLIE.    Certainly  not  now? 

MRS  HUSHABYE.    Very  well:   I'll  tell  your  father. 

ELLIE  [distressed].    Oh! 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  If  you  tum  a  hair  —  if  you  take  his 
part  against  me  and  against  your  own  heart  for  a  mo- 
ment, I'll  give  that  born  soldier  of  freedom  a  piece  of 
my  mind  that  will  stand  him  on  his  selfish  old  head  for 
a  week. 

ELLIE.  Hesione!  My  father  selfish !  How  little  you 
know  — 


16  Heartbreak  House  Act  1 

She  is  interrupted  by  Mazzini,  who  returns,  excited  and 
perspiring. 

MAZZiNi.  Ellie,  Mangan  has  come:  I  thought  you'd 
like  to  know.  Excuse  me,  Mrs  Hushabye,  the  strange 
old  gentleman  — 

MRS  HUSHABYE.    Papa.    Quitc  so. 

MAZZINI.  Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon,  of  course:  I  was 
a  little  confused  by  his  manner.  He  is  making  Man- 
gan help  him  with  something  in  the  garden;  and  he 
wants  me  too  — 

A  powerful  whistle  is  heard. 

THE  captain's  VOICE.  Bosun  ahoy!  [the  whistle  is 
repeated}. 

MAZZINI  [flustered] .  Oh  dear !  I  believe  he  is  whistling 
for  me.    [He  hurries  out.'] 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  Now  my  father  is  a  wonderful  man 
if  you  like. 

ELLIE.  Hesione,  listen  to  me.  You  don't  under- 
stand. My  father  and  Mr  Mangan  were  boys  together. 
Mr  Ma— 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  I  don't  carc  what  they  were:  we 
must  sit  down  if  you  are  going  to  begin  as  far  back  as 
that.  [She  snatches  at  Ellie' s  waist,  and  makes  her  sit 
down  on  the  sofa  beside  her.]  Now,  pettikins,  tell  me 
all  about  Mr  Mangan.  They  call  him  Boss  Mangan, 
don't  they?  He  is  a  Napoleon  of  industry  and  dis- 
gustingly rich,  isn't  he?    Why  isn't  your  father  rich? 

ELLIE.  My  poor  father  should  never  have  been  in 
business.  His  parents  were  poets;  and  they  gave  him 
the  noblest  ideas;  but  they  could  not  afford  to  give 
him  a  profession. 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  Faucy  your  grandparents,  with 
their  eyes  in  fine  frenzy  rolling!  And  so  your  poor 
father  had  to  go  into  business.  Hasn't  he  succeeded  in 
it? 

ELLIE.    He  always  used  to  say  he  could  succeed  if  he 


Act  1  Heartbreak  House  17 

only  had  some  capital.  He  fought  his  way  along,  to 
keep  a  roof  over  our  heads  and  bring  us  up  well;  but 
it  was  always  a  struggle:  always  the  same  difficulty  of 
not  having  capital  enough.  I  don't  know  how  to  de- 
scribe it  to  you. 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  Poor  Ellic!  I  kuow.  Pulling  the 
devil  by  the  tail. 

ELLiE  Zhurt].  Oh,  no.  Not  like  that.  It  was  at  least 
dignified. 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  That  made  it  all  the  harder,  didn't 
it?  /  shouldn't  have  pulled  the  devil  by  the  tail  with 
dignity.  I  should  have  pulled  hard  —  [between  her 
teeth]  hard.    Well.^    Go  on. 

ELLIE.  At  last  it  seemed  that  all  our  troubles  were 
at  an  end.  Mr  Mangan  did  an  extraordinarily  noble 
thing  out  of  pure  friendship  for  my  father  and  respect 
for  his  character.  He  asked  him  how  much  capital  he 
wanted,  and  gave  it  to  him.  I  don't  mean  that  he  lent 
it  to  him,  or  that  he  invested  it  in  his  business.  He 
just  simply  made  him  a  present  of  it.  Wasn't  that 
splendid  of  him? 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  On  couditiou  that  you  married 
him? 

ELLIE.  Oh,  no,  no,  no !  This  was  when  I  was  a  child. 
He  had  never  even  seen  me:  he  never  came  to  our 
house.  It  was  absolutely  disinterested.  Pure  gener- 
osity. 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  Oh!  I  beg  the  gentleman's  pardon. 
Well,  what  became  of  the  money? 

ELLIE.    We  all  got  new  clothes  and  mov^d  into  an 
other  house.     And  I  went  to  another  school  for  two 
years. 

MRS  HUSHABYE.    Only  two  ycars? 

ELLIE.  That  was  all:  for  at  the  end  of  two  years 
my  father  was  utterly  ruined. 

MRS  HUSHABYE.      HoW? 


18  Heartbreak  House  Act  1 

ELLiE.  I  don't  know.  I  never  could  understand. 
But  it  was  dreadful.  When  we  were  poor  my  father 
had  never  been  in  debt.  But  when  he  launched  out 
into  business  on  a  large  scale,  he  had  to  incur  liabilities. 
When  the  business  went  into  liquidation  he  owed  more 
money  than  Mr  Mangan  had  given  him. 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  Bit  off  mopc  than  he  could  chew,  I 
suppose. 

ELLIE.    I  think  you  are  a  little  unfeeling  about  it. 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  My  pcttikius,  you  mustn't  mind 
my  way  of  talking.  I  was  quite  as  sensitive  and  par- 
ticular as  you  once;  but  I  have  picked  up  so  much 
slang  from  the  children  that  I  am  really  hardly  pre- 
sentable. I  suppose  yom*  father  had  no  head  for  busi- 
ness, and  made  a  mess  of  it. 

ELLIE.  Oh,  that  just  shows  how  entirely  you  are 
mistaken  about  him.  The  business  turned  out  a  great 
success.  It  now  pays  forty-four  per  cent  after  deduct- 
ing the  excess  profits  tax. 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  Then  why  aren't  you  rolling  in 
money  .f* 

ELLIE.  I  don't  know.  It  seems  very  unfair  to  me. 
You  see,  my  father  was  made  bankrupt.  It  nearly 
broke  his  heart,  because  he  had  persuaded  several  of 
his  friends  to  put  money  into  the  business.  He  was 
sure  it  would  succeed;  and  events  proved  that  he  was 
quite  right.  But  they  all  lost  their  money.  It  was 
dreadful.  I  don't  know  what  we  should  have  done 
but  for  Mr  Mangan. 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  ^Vhat!  Did  the  Boss  come  to  the 
rescue  again,  after  all  his  money  being  thrown  away.? 

ELLIE.  He  did  indeed,  and  never  uttered  a  reproach 
to  my  father.  He  bought  what  was  left  of  the  business 
—  the  buildings  and  the  machinery  and  things  —  from 
the  ojBScial  trustee  for  enough  money  to  enable  my 
father  to  pay  six  and  eightpence  in  the  pound  and  get 


Act  1  Heartbreak  House  19 

his  discharge.  Everyone  pitied  papa  so  mucn,  and  saw 
so  plainly  that  he  was  an  honorable  man,  that  they 
let  him  off  at  six-and-eight-pence  instead  of  ten  shil- 
lings. Then  Mr  Mangan  started  a  company  to  take 
up  the  business,  and  made  my  father  a  manager  in  it 
to  save  us  from  starvation;  for  I  wasn't  earning  any- 
thing then. 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  Quitc  a  Tomancc.  And  when  did 
the  Boss  develop  the  tender  passion? 

ELLiE.  Oh,  that  was  years  after,  quite  lately.  He 
took  the  chair  one  night  at  a  sort  of  people's  concert. 
I  was  singing  there.  As  an  amateur,  you  know:  half 
a  guinea  for  expenses  and  three  songs  with  three  en- 
cores. He  was  so  pleased  with  my  singing  that  he 
asked  might  he  walk  home  with  me.  I  never  saw  any- 
one so  taken  aback  as  he  was  when  I  took  him  home 
and  introduced  him  to  my  father,  his  own  manager. 
It  was  then  that  my  father  told  me  how  nobly  he  had 
behaved.  Of  course  it  was  considered  a  great  chance 
for  me,  as  he  is  so  rich.  And  —  and  —  we  drifted  into 
a  sort  of  understanding  —  I  suppose  I  should  call  it 
an  engagement  —  [^she  is  distressed  and  cannot  go  on]. 

MRS  HUSHABYE  [rising  and  marching  about^.  You  may 
have  drifted  into  it;  but  you  will  bounce  out  of  it,  my 
pettikins,  if  I  am  to  have  anything  to  do  with  it. 

BiAAE  [hopelessly}.  No:  it's  no  use.  I  am  bound  in 
honor  and  gratitude.    I  will  go  through  with  it. 

MRS  HUSHABYE  [behind  the  sofa,  scolding  down  at  her}. 
You  know,  of  course,  that  it's  not  honorable  or  grateful 
to  marry  a  man  you  don't  love.  Do  you  love  this 
Mangan  man.?^ 

ELLIE.    Yes.    At  least  — 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  I  dou't  waut  to  kuow  about  "at 
least":  I  want  to  know  the  worst.  Girls  of  your  age 
fall  in  love  with  all  sorts  of  impossible  people,  especially 
old  people. 


20  Heartbreak  House  Act  1 

ELLiE.  I  like  Mr  Mangan  very  much;  and  I  shall 
always  be  — 

MRS  HUSHABYE  [impatiently  completing  the  sentence 
and  prancing  away  intolerantly  to  starboard],  —  grateful 
to  him  for  his  kindness  to  dear  father.  I  know.  Any- 
body else.? 

ELLIE.    What  do  you  mean? 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  Anybody  else?  Are  you  in  love 
with  anybody  else? 

ELLIE.    Of  course  not. 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  Humph!  [The  hooh  on  the  dratoing- 
table  catches  her  eye.  She  picks  it  up,  and  evidently  finds 
the  title  very  unexpected.  She  looks  at  Ellicy  and  asks, 
quaintly']  Quite  sure  you're  not  in  love  with  an  actor? 

ELLIE.  No,  no.  Why?  What  put  such  a  thing  into 
your  head? 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  This  is  yours,  isn't  it?  Why  else 
should  you  be  reading  Othello? 

ELLIE.    My  father  taught  me  to  love  Shakespeare. 

MRS  HUSHABYE  [flinging  the  book  down  on  the  table]. 
Really!  your  father  does  seem  to  be  about  the  limit. 

ELLIE  [naively].  Do  you  never  read  Shakespeare, 
Hesione?  That  seems  to  me  so  extraordinary.  I  like 
Othello. 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  Do  you,  indeed?  He  was  jealous, 
wasn't  he? 

ELLIE.  Oh,  not  that.  I  think  all  the  part  about 
jealousy  is  horrible.  But  don't  you  think  it  must  have 
been  a  wonderful  experience  for  Desdemona,  brought 
up  so  quietly  at  home,  to  meet  a  man  who  had  been 
out  in  the  world  doing  all  sorts  of  brave  things  and 
having  terrible  adventures,  and  yet  finding  something 
in  her  that  made  him  love  to  sit  and  talk  with  her  and 
tell  her  about  them? 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  That's  your  idea  of  romance, 
is  it? 


Act  1  Heartbreak     House  21 

ELLiE.  Not  romance,  exactly.  It  might  really  hap- 
pen. 

Ellies  eyes  show  that  she  is  not  arguing^  hut  in  a  day- 
dream.  Mrs  Hushaby e,  watching  her  inquisitively,  goes 
deliberately  back  to  the  sofa  and  resumes  her  seat  beside  her. 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  Ellic  darling,  have  you  noticed 
that  some  of  those  stories  that  Othello  told  Desdemona 
couldn't  have  happened .^^ 

ELLIE.  Oh,  no.  Shakespeare  thought  they  could 
have  happened. 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  Hm!  Dcsdcmoua  thought  they 
could  have  happened.     But  they  didn't. 

ELLIE.  Why  do  you  look  so  enigmatic  about  it? 
You  are  such  a  sphinx:   I  never  know  what  you  mean. 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  Dcsdcmoua  would  have  found  him 
out  if  she  had  lived,  you  know.  I  wonder  was  that 
why  he  strangled  her! 

ELLIE.    Othello  was  not  telling  lies. 

MRS  HUSHABYE.    How  do  you  kuow? 

ELLIE.  Shakespeare  would  have  said  if  he  was. 
Hesione,  there  are  men  who  have  done  wonderful 
things:  men  like  Othello,  only,  of  course,  white,  and 
very  handsome,  and  — 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  Ah!  Now  we*re  comiug  to  it.  Tell 
me  all  about  him.  I  knew  there  must  be  somebody,  or 
you'd  never  have  been  so  miserable  about  Mangan: 
you'd  have  thought  it  quite  a  lark  to  marry  him. 

ELLIE  [blushing  vividly'].  Hesione,  you  are  dreadful. 
But  I  don't  want  to  make  a  secret  of  it,  though  of 
course  I  don't  tell  everybody.  Besides,  I  don't  know 
him. 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  Don't  kuow  him!  What  does  that 
mean? 

ELLIE.    Well,  of  course  I  know  him  to  speak  to. 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  But  you  waut  to  know  him  ever  so 
much  more  intimately,  eh? 


%%  Heartbreak  House  Act  1 

ELLiE.  No,  no :  I  know  him  quite  —  almost  inti- 
mately. 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  You  don't  know  him;  and  you 
know  him  almost  intimately.    How  lucid! 

ELLIE.  I  mean  that  he  does  not  call  on  us.  I  —  I 
got  into  conversation  w  th  him  by  chance  at  a  concert. 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  You  sccm  to  havc  rather  a  gay  time 
at  your  concerts,  Ellie. 

ELLIE.  Not  at  all:  we  talk  to  everyone  in  the  green- 
room waiting  for  our  turns.  I  thought  he  was  one  of 
the  artists:  he  looked  so  splendid.  But  he  was  only 
one  of  the  committee.  I  happened  to  tell  him  that  I 
was  copying  a  picture  at  the  National  Gallery.  I  make 
a  little  money  that  way.  I  can't  paint  much;  but  as 
it's  always  the  same  picture  I  can  do  it  pretty  quickly 
and  get  two  or  three  pounds  for  it.  It  happened  that 
he  came  to  the  National  Gallery  one  day. 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  One  studcnts'  day.  Paid  sixpence 
to  stumble  about  through  a  crowd  of  easels,  when  he 
might  have  come  in  next  day  for  nothing  and  found 
the  floor  clear!    Quite  by  accident? 

ELLIE  [triumphantl]/]'  No.  On  purpose.  He  liked 
talking  to  me.  He  knows  lots  of  the  most  splendid 
people.  Fashionable  women  who  are  all  in  love  with 
him.  But  he  ran  away  from  them  to  see  me  at  the 
National  Gallery  and  persuade  me  to  come  with  him 
for  a  drive  round  Richmond  Park  in  a  taxi. 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  My  pcttikius,  you  have  been  going 
it.  It's  wonderful  what  you  good  girls  can  do  with- 
out anyone  saying  a  word. 

ELLIE.  I  am  not  in  society,  Hesione.  If  I  didn't 
make  acquaintances  in  that  way  I  shouldn't  have  any 
at  all. 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  Well,  HO  harm  if  you  know  how  to 
take  care  of  yourself.    May  I  ask  his  name? 

ELLIE  [slowly  and  musically^.  Marcus  Darnley. 


Act  1  Heartbreak  House  23 

MRS  HUSHABYE  [jschoing  the  music].  Marcus  Darnley ! 
What  a  splendid  name! 

ELLiE.  Oh,  I'm  so  glad  you  think  so.  I  think  so 
too;  but  I  was  afraid  it  was  only  a  silly  fancy  of  my 
own. 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  Hm!  Is  he  one  of  the  Aberdeen 
Darnleys.'^ 

ELLIE.  Nobody  knows.  Just  fancy!  He  was  found 
in  an  antique  chest  — 

MRS  HUSHABYE.      A  what.? 

ELLIE.  An  antique  chest,  one  summer  morning  in  a 
rose  garden,  after  a  night  of  the  most  terrible  thunder- 
storm. 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  What  ou  earth  was  he  doing  in  the 
chest  .^^  Did  he  get  into  it  because  he  was  afraid  of  the 
lightning? 

ELLIE.  Oh,  no,  no:  he  was  a  baby.  The  name  Mar- 
cus Darnley  was  embroidered  on  his  baby  clothes. 
And  five  hundred  pounds  in  gold. 

MRS  HUSHABYE  [looking  hard  at  her].    EUie! 

ELLIE.    The  garden  of  the  Viscount  — 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  dc  RoUgCmOUt? 

ELLIE  [innocently].  No:  de  Larochejaquelin.  A 
French  family.  A  vicomte.  His  life  has  been  one  long 
romance.    A  tiger  — 

MRS  HUSHABYE.    Slain  by  his  own  hand? 

ELLIE.  Oh,  no :  nothing  vulgar  like  that.  He  saved 
the  life  of  the  tiger  from  a  hunting  party:  one  of  King 
Edward's  hunting  parties  in  India.  The  King  was  fu- 
rious: that  was  why  he  never  had  his  military  services 
properly  recognized.  But  he  doesn't  care.  He  is  a 
SociaUst  and  despises  rank,  and  has  been  in  three 
revolutions  fighting  on  the  barricades. 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  How  cau  you  sit  there  telling  me 
such  lies?  You,  EUie,  of  all  people!  And  I  thought 
you  were  a  perfectly  simple,  straightforward,  good  girl. 


24  Heartbreak  House  Act  1 

ELLIE  [rising,  dignified  but  very  angry"].  Do  you  mean 
to  say  you  don't  believe  me? 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  Of  course  I  don't  believe  you. 
You're  inventing  every  word  of  it.  Do  you  take  me 
for  a  fool? 

Ellie  stares  at  her.  Her  candor  is  so  obvious  that  Mrs 
Hushabye  is  puzzled. 

ELLIE.  Goodbye,  Hesione.  I'm  very  sorry.  I  see 
now  that  it  sounds  very  improbable  as  I  tell  it.  But 
I  can't  stay  if  you  think  that  way  about  me. 

MRS  nvsKABYE  [catching  her  dress].  You  shan't  go.  I 
couldn't  be  so  mistaken:  I  know  too  well  what  liars 
are  like.     Somebody  has  really  told  you  all  this. 

ELLIE  [flushing].  Hesione,  don't  say  that  you  don't 
believe  him.     I  couldn't  bear  that. 

MRS  HUSHABYE  [soothiug  her].  Of  course  I  believe 
him,  dearest.  But  you  should  have  broken  it  to  me 
by  degrees.  [Drawing  her  back  to  her  seat 7]  Now  tell 
me  all  about  him.    Are  you  in  love  with  him? 

ELLIE.  Oh,  no.  I'm  not  so  foolish.  I  don't  fall  in 
love  with  people.     I'm  not  so  silly  as  you  think. 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  I  scc.  Only  something  to  think 
about  —  to  give  some  interest  and  pleasure  to  life. 

ELLIE.    Just  so.    That's  all,  really. 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  It  makcs  the  hours  go  fast,  doesn't 
it?  No  tedious  waiting  to  go  to  sleep  at  nights  and 
wondering  whether  you  will  have  a  bad  night.  How 
delightful  it  makes  waking  up  in  the  morning!  How 
much  better  than  the  happiest  dream!  All  life  trans- 
figured! No  more  wishing  one  had  an  interesting  book 
to  read,  because  life  is  so  much  happier  than  any  book! 
No  desire  but  to  be  alone  and  not  to  have  to  talk  to 
anyone:   to  be  alone  and  just  think  about  it. 

ELLIE  [embracing  her],  Hesione,  you  are  a  witch. 
How  do  you  know?  Oh,  you  are  the  most  sympathetic 
woman  in  the  world! 


Act  1  Heartbreak  House  25 

MRS  HUSHABYE  [caressiug  her].  Pettikins,  my  petti- 
kins,  how  I  envy  you!   and  how  I  pity  you! 

ELLiE.    Pity  me!    Oh,  why? 

A  very  handsome  man  of  fifty,  with  mousquetaire 
moustaches,  wearing  a  rather  dandified  curly  brimmed 
hat,  and  carrying  an  elaborate  walking-stick,  comes  into 
the  room  from  the  hall,  and  stops  short  at  sight  of  the 
women  on  the  sofa. 

ELLIE  \_seeing  him  and  rising  in  glad  surprise].  Oh! 
Hesione:  this  is  Mr  Marcus  Darnley. 

MRS  HUSHABYE  [rising].  What  a  lark !  He  is  my  hus- 
band. 

ELLIE.  But  now  —  \_she  stops  suddenly:  then  turns 
pale  and  sways]. 

MRS  HUSHABYE  [cotching  her  and  sitting  down  with 
her  on  the  sofa].    Steady,  my  pettikins. 

THE  MAN  [with  a  mixture  of  confusion  and  effrontery, 
depositing  his  hat  and  stick  on  the  teak  table].  My  real 
name.  Miss  Dunn,  is  Hector  Hushabye.  I  leave  you 
to  judge  whether  that  is  a  name  any  sensitive  man 
would  care  to  confess  so.  I  never  use  it  when  I  can 
possibly  help  it.  I  have  been  away  for  nearly  a  month; 
and  I  had  no  idea  you  knew  my  wife,  or  that  you  were 
coming  here.  I  am  none  the  less  delighted  to  find  you 
in  our  little  house. 

ELLIE  [in  great  distress].  I  don't  know  what  to  do. 
Please,  may  I  speak  to  papa?  Do  leave  me.  I  can't 
bear  it. 

MRS  HUSHABYE.    Be  off,  Hcctor. 

HECTOR.     I  — 

MRS  HUSHABYE.    Quick,  quick.    Get  out. 

HECTOR.  If  you  think  it  better  —  [he  goes  out, 
taking  his  hat  with  him  but  leaving  the  stick  on  the 
table]. 

MRS  HUSHABYE  [laying  Ellie  down  at  the  end  of  the 
sofa].  Now,  pettikins,  he  is  gone.    There's  nobody  but 


26  Heartbreak  House  Act  1 

me.  You  can  let  yourself  go.  Don't  try  to  control 
yourself.    Have  a  good  cry. 

ELLiE  [raising  her  head].   Damn! 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  Splendid!  Oh,  what  a  relief!  I 
thought  you  were  going  to  be  broken-hearted.  Never 
mind  me.    Damn  him  again. 

ELLIE.  I  am  not  damning  him.  I  am  damning  my- 
self for  being  such  a  fool.  [Rising.']  How  could  I  let 
myself  be  taken  in  so.^^  [She  begins  prowling  to  and  fro, 
her  bloom  gone,  looking  curiously  older  and  harder.] 

MRS  HUSHABYE  [cheerfully].  Why  not,  pettikins? 
Very  few  young  women  can  resist  Hector.  I  couldn't 
when  I  was  your  age.  He  is  really  rather  splendid, 
you  know. 

ELLIE  [turning  on  her].  Splendid!  Yes,  splendid 
looking,  of  course.    But  how  can  you  love  a  liar? 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  I  don't  know.  But  you  can,  fortu- 
nately. Otherwise  there  wouldn't  be  much  love  in  the 
world. 

ELLIE.  But  to  lie  like  that!  To  be  a  boaster!  a 
coward ! 

MRS  HUSHABYE  [rising  in  alarm].  Pettikins,  none  of 
that,  if  you  please.  If  you  hint  the  slightest  doubt  of 
Hector's  courage,  he  will  go  straight  off  and  do  the 
most  horribly  dangerous  things  to  convince  himself 
that  he  isn't  a  coward.  He  has  a  dreadful  trick  of  get- 
ting out  of  one  third-floor  window  and  coming  in  at 
another,  just  to  test  his  nerve.  He  has  a  whole  drawer- 
ful  of  Albert  Medals  for  saving  people's  lives. 

ELLIE.    He  never  told  me  that. 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  He  ncvcr  boasts  of  anything  he 
really  did:  he  can't  bear  it;  and  it  makes  him  shy 
if  anyone  else  does.  All  his  stories  are  made-up 
stories. 

ELLIE  [coming  to  her].  Do  you  mean  that  he  is  really 
brave,  and  really  has  adventures,  and  yet  tells  lies 


Act  1  Heartbreak  House  27 

about  things  that  he  never  did  and  that  never 
happened? 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  Yes,  pettikins,  I  do.  People  don't 
have  their  virtues  and  vices  in  sets:  they  have  them 
anyhow:  all  mixed. 

ELLIE  [^staring  at  her  thoughtfully].  There's  something 
odd  about  this  house,  Hesione,  and  even  about  you. 
I  don't  know  why  I'm  talking  to  you  so  calmly.  I  have 
a  horrible  fear  that  my  heart  is  broken,  but  that  heart- 
break is  not  like  what  I  thought  it  must  be. 

MRS  HUSHABYE  [foudlmg  her}.  It's  only  life  educating 
you,  pettikins.  How  do  you  feel  about  Boss  Mangan 
now? 

ELLIE  [^disengaging  herself  with  an  expression  of  dis- 
taste}.   Oh,  how  can  you  remind  me  of  him,  Hesione? 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  Sorry,  dear.  I  think  I  hear  Hector 
coming  back.    You  don't  mind  now,  do  you,  dear? 

ELLIE.    Not  in  the  least.    I  am  quite  cured. 

Mazzini  Dunn  and  Hector  come  in  from  the  hall. 

HECTOR  [_as  he  opens  the  door  and  allows  Mazzini  to 
pass  in}.  One  second  more,  and  she  would  have  been 
a  dead  woman! 

MAZZINI.  Dear!  dear!  what  an  escape!  EUie,  my 
love,  Mr  Hushaby e  has  just  been  telling  me  the  most 
extraordinary  — 

ELLIE.  Yes,  I've  heard  it  [she  crosses  to  the  other  side 
of  the  room}. 

HECTOR  [following  her}.  Not  this  one:  I'll  tell  it  to 
you  after  dinner.  I  think  you'll  like  it.  The  truth  is  I 
made  it  up  for  you,  and  was  looking  forward  to  the 
pleasure  of  telling  it  to  you.  But  in  a  moment  of  im- 
patience at  being  turned  out  of  the  room,  I  threw  it 
away  on  your  father. 

ELLIE  [turning  at  hay  with  her  hack  to  the  carpenter  s 
bench,  scornfully  self-possessed}.  It  was  not  thrown 
away.    He  believes  it.    I  should  not  have  believed  it. 


28  Heartbreak  House  Act  1 

MAZZiNi  [benevolently}.  EUie  is  very  naughty,  Mr 
Hushabye.  Of  course  she  does  not  really  think  that. 
[He  goes  to  the  bookshelves,  and  inspects  the  titles  of  the 
volumes. 2 

Boss  Mangan  comes  in  from  the  hall,  followed  by  the 
captain.  Mangan,  carefully  frock-coated  as  for  church 
or  for  a  directors'  meeting,  is  about  fifty-five,  with  a  care- 
worn, mistrustful  expression,  standing  a  little  on  an  en- 
tirely imaginary  dignity,  with  a  dull  complexion,  straight, 
lustreless  hair,  and  features  so  entirely  commonplace  that 
it  is  impossible  to  describe  them. 

CAPTAIN  SHOTOVEB  [to  Mrs  Hushabye,  introducing 
the  newcomer'].  Says  his  name  is  Mangan.  Not  able- 
bodied. 

MRS  HUSHABYE  [graciously].  How  do  you  do,  Mr 
Mangan? 

MANGAN  [shaking  hands].    Very  pleased. 

CAPTAIN  SHOTOVER.  Duun's  lost  his  muscle,  but  re- 
covered his  nerve.  Men  seldom  do  after  three  attacks 
of  delirium  tremens  [he  goes  into  the  pantry]. 

MRS  HUSHABYE.    I  Congratulate  you,  Mr  Dunn. 

MAZZINI  [dazed].    I  am  a  lifelong  teetotaler. 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  You  wiU  find  it  far  less  trouble  to 
let  papa  have  his  own  way  than  try  to  explain. 

MAZZINI.  But  three  attacks  of  delirium  tremens, 
really ! 

MRS  HUSHABYE  [to  Mangan].  Do  you  know  my  hus- 
band, Mr  Mangan  [she  indicates  Hector]. 

MANGAN  [going  to  Hector,  who  meets  him  with  out- 
stretched hand].  Very  pleased.  [Turning  to  Ellie.]  I 
hope.  Miss  Ellie,  you  have  not  found  the  journey 
down  too  fatiguing.    [They  shake  hands.] 

MRS  HUSHABYE.    Hcctor,  show  Mr  Dunn  his  room. 

HECTOR.  Certainly.  Come  along,  Mr  Dunn.  [He 
takes  Mazzini  out^ 

ELLIE.  You  haven't  shown  me  my  room  yet,  Hesione. 


Act  1  Heartbreak  House  29 

MRS  HUSHABYE.    How  stupid  of  me!    Come  along. 

»Make  yourself  quite  at  home,  Mr  Mangan.  Papa  will 
entertain  you.  [^She  calls  to  the  captain  in  the  pantry.^ 
Papa,  come  and  explain  the  house  to  Mr  Mangan. 

She  goes  out  with  Ellie.  The  captain  comes  from  the 
pantry. 

CAPTAIN  SHOTOVER.  You'rc  going  to  marry  Dunn's 
daughter.    Don't.    You're  too  old. 

MANGAN  \_staggered^.  Well!  That's  fairly  blunt. 
Captain. 

CAPTAIN  SHOTOVER.     It's  trUC. 

MANGAN.    She  doesn't  think  so. 

CAPTAIN  SHOTOVER.    She  docs. 

MANGAN.    Older  men  than  I  have  — 

CAPTAIN  SHOTOVER  [^finishing  the  sentence  for  him~\.  — 
made  fools  of  themselves.    That,  also,  is  true. 

MANGAN  {asserting  himself^.  I  don't  see  that  this  is 
any  business  of  yours. 

CAPTAIN  SHOTOVER.  It  is  everybody's  business. 
The  stars  in  their  courses  are  shaken  when  such  things 
happen. 

MANGAN.    I'm  going  to  marry  her  all  the  same. 

CAPTAIN  SHOTOVER.      HoW  do  yOU  loiOW? 

MANGAN  {playing  the  strong  man'].  I  intend  to.  I 
mean  to.  See?  I  never  made  up  my  mind  to  do  a 
thing  yet  that  I  didn't  bring  it  off.  That's  the  sort 
of  man  I  am;  and  there  will  be  a  better  understanding 
between  us  when  you  make  up  your  mind  to  that. 
Captain. 

CAPTAIN  SHOTOVER.    You  frequent  picture  palaces. 

MANGAN.     Perhaps  I  do.     Who  told  you? 

CAPTAIN  SHOTOVER.  Talk  like  a  man,  not  like  a 
movy.  You  mean  that  you  make  a  hundred  thousand 
a  year. 

MANGAN.  I  don't  boast.  But  when  I  meet  a  man 
that  makes  a  hundred  thousand  a  year,  I  take  off  my 


30  Heartbreak  House  Act  1 

hat  to  that  man,  and  stretch  out  my  hand  to  him  and 
call  him  brother. 

CAPTAIN  SHOTOVER.  Then  you  also  make  a  hundred 
thousand  a  year,  hey? 

MANGAN.  No.  I  can't  say  that.  Fifty  thousand, 
perhaps. 

CAPTAIN  SHOTOVER.  His  half  brother  only  [he  turns 
away  from  Mangan  with  his  usual  abruptness,  and  col- 
lects the  empty  tea-cups  on  the  Chinese  tray'}. 

MANGAN  [irritated}.  See  here,  Captain  Shotover. 
I  don't  quite  understand  my  position  here.  I  came 
here  on  your  daughter's  invitation.  Am  I  in  her  house 
or  in  yours? 

CAPTAIN  SHOTOVER.  You  are  beneath  the  dome  of 
heaven,  in  the  house  of  God.  What  is  true  within 
these  walls  is  true  outside  them.  Go  out  on  the  seas; 
climb  the  mountains;  wander  through  the  valleys. 
She  is  still  too  young. 

MANGAN  [weakening}.    But  I'm  very  Uttle  over  fifty. 

CAPTAIN  SHOTOVER.  You  are  still  less  under  sixty. 
Boss  Mangan,  you  will  not  marry  the  pirate's  child 
[he  carries  the  tray  away  into  the  pantry}. 

MANGAN  [following  him  to  the  half  door}.  What 
pirate's  child?    What  are  you  talking  about? 

CAPTAIN  SHOTOVER  [in  the  pantry}.  Ellie  Dunn.  You 
will  not  marry  her. 

MANGAN.     Who  will  stop  me? 

CAPTAIN  SHOTOVER  [emerging}.  My  daughter  [he 
makes  for  the  door  leading  to  the  hall}. 

MANGAN  [following  him}.  Mrs  Hushaby e!  Do  you 
mean  to  say  she  brought  me  down  here  to  break  it  off? 

CAPTAIN  SHOTOVER  [stopping  and  turning  on  him}. 
I  know  nothing  more  than  I  have  seen  in  her  eye.  She 
will  break  it  off.  Take  my  advice:  marry  a  West 
Indian  negress:  they  make  excellent  wives.  I  was 
married  to  one  myself  for  two  years. 


Act  1  Heartbreak  House  31 

MANGAN.    Well,  I  am  damned! 

CAPTAIN   SHOTOVER.      I   thought   SO.      I   WaS,   toO,   foF 

many  years.     The  negress  redeemed  me. 

MANGAN  \i  feebly}.  This  is  queer.  I  ought  to  walk 
out  of  this  house. 

CAPTAIN  SHOTOVER.      Why? 

MANGAN.  Well,  many  men  would  be  offended  by 
your  style  of  talking. 

CAPTAIN  SHOTOVER.  Nouseuse!  It's  the  other  sort 
of  talking  that  makes  quarrels.  Nobody  ever  quarrels 
with  me. 

A  gentleman,  whose  first-rate  tailoring  and  frictionless 
manners  proclaim  the  wellbred  West  Ender,  comes  in 
from  the  hall.  He  has  an  engaging  air  of  being  young 
and  unmarried,  but  on  close  inspection  is  found  to  be 
at  least  over  forty. 

THE  GENTLEMAN.  Excuse  my  intruding  in  this 
fashion,  but  there  is  no  knocker  on  the  door  and  the 
bell  does  not  seem  to  ring. 

CAPTAIN  SHOTOVER.  Why  should  there  be  a  knocker? 
Why  should  the  bell  ring?     The  door  is  open. 

THE  GENTLEMAN.  Precisely.  So  I  ventured  to 
come  in. 

CAPTAIN  SHOTOVER.  Quitc  right.  I  will  see  about 
a  room  for  you  [he  makes  for  the  door}. 

THE  GENTLEMAN  [stopping  him}.  But  I'm  afraid 
you  don't  know  who  I  am. 

CAPTAIN  SHOTOVER.  Do  you  supposc  that  at  my 
age  I  make  distinctions  between  one  fellowcreature 
and  another?  [He  goes  out.  Mangan  and  the  new- 
comer stare  at  one  another.} 

MANGAN.    Strange  character,  Captain  Shotover,  sir. 

THE   GENTLEMAN.      Very. 

CAPTAIN  SHOTOVER  [shouting  outside}.  Hesione, 
another  person  has  arrived  and  wants  a  room.  Man 
about  town,  well  dressed,  fifty. 


32  Heartbreak  House  Act  1 

THE  GENTLEMAN.     Fancy  Hesione's  feelings!     May 
I  ask  are  you  a  member  of  the  family? 
MANGAN.     No. 

THE  GENTLEMAN.    I  am.    At  Icast  a  connection. 

Mrs  Hushabye  comes  back. 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  How  do  you  do?  How  good  of  you 
to  come! 

THE  GENTLEMAN.  I  am  vcry  glad  indeed  to  make 
your  acquaintance,  Hesione.  {^Instead  of  taking  her 
hand  he  kisses  her.  At  the  same  moment  the  captain 
appears  in  the  doorway.'}  You  will  excuse  my  kissing 
your  daughter,  Captain,  when  I  tell  you  that  — 

CAPTAIN  SHOTOVER.  Stuff!  Evcryonc  kisses  my 
daughter.  Kiss  her  as  much  as  you  like  [he  makes  for 
the  pantry}. 

THE  GENTLEMAN.  Thank  you.  One  moment.  Cap- 
tain. [The  captain  halts  and  turns.  The  gentleman 
goes  to  him  affably.}  Do  you  happen  to  remember  — 
but  probably  you  don't,  as  it  occurred  many  years 
ago  —  that  your  younger  daughter  married  a  num- 
skull? 

CAPTAIN  SHOTOVER.  Ycs.  She  Said  she'd  marry 
anybody  to  get  away  from  this  house.  I  should  not 
have  recognized  you:  your  head  is  no  longer  like  a 
walnut.  Your  aspect  is  softened.  You  have  been 
boiled  in  bread  and  milk  for  years  and  years,  like 
other  married  men.  Poor  devil!  [He  disappears  into 
the  pantry.} 

MRS  HUSHABYE  [going  past  Mangan  to  the  gentleman 
and  scrutinizing  him}.  I  don't  believe  you  are  Hastings 
Utterword. 

THE  GENTLEMAN.      I  am  not. 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  Then  what  business  had  you  to 
kiss  me? 

THE  GENTLEMAN.  I  thought  I  would  like  to.  The 
fact  is,  I  am  Randall  Utterword,  the  unworthy  younger 


Act  1  Heartbreak  House  33 

brother  of  Hastings.    I  was  abroad  diplomatizing  when 
he  was  married. 

LADY  UTTERWORD  [dasMng  m].  Hesione,  where  is 
the  key  of  the  wardrobe  in  my  room?  My  diamonds  are 
in  my  dressing-bag :  I  must  lock  it  up  —  [recognizing 
the  stranger  with  a  shock~\  Randall,  how  dare  you? 
[She  marches  at  him  past  Mrs  Hushabye,  who  retreats 
and  joins  Mangan  near  the  sofaJi 

RANDALL.  How  dare  I  what?  I  am  not  doing  any- 
thing. 

LADY  UTTERWORD.     Who  told  you  I  was  here? 

RANDALL.  Hastings.  You  had  just  left  when  I 
called  on  you  at  Claridge's;  so  I  followed  you  down 
here.     You  are  looking  extremely  well. 

LADY  UTTERWORD.    Dou't  prcsumc  to  tell  me  so. 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  What  is  WToug  with  Mr  Randall, 
Addy? 

LADY  UTTERWORD  [recollecting  herself].  Oh,  nothing. 
But  he  has  no  right  to  come  bothering  you  and  papa 
without  being  invited  [she  goes  to  the  window-seat  and 
sits  down^  turning  away  from  them  ill-humoredly  and 
looking  into  the  garden,  where  Hector  and  Ellie  are  now 
seen  strolling  together]. 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  I  think  you  have  not  met  Mr 
Mangan,  Addy. 

LADY  UTTERWORD  [turning  her  head  and  nodding 
coldly  to  Mangan].  I  beg  your  pardon.  Randall, 
you  have  flustered  me  so:  I  make  a  perfect  fool  of 
myself. 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  Lady  Utterword.  My  sister.  My 
younger  sister. 

MANGAN  [bowing].  Pleased  to  meet  you,  Lady 
Utterword. 

LADY  UTTERWORD  [with  marked  interest].  Who  is 
that  gentleman  walking  in  the  garden  with  Miss 
Dunn? 


34  Heartbreak  House  Act  1 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  I  don't  know.  She  quarrelled 
mortally  with  my  husband  only  ten  minutes  ago;  and 
I  didn't  know  anyone  else  had  come.  It  must  be  a 
visitor.  [^She  goes  to  the  window  to  lookr\  Oh,  it  is 
Hector.     They've  made  it  up. 

LADY  UTTERWORD.  Your  husbaud!  That  handsome 
man? 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  Well,  why  shouldn't  my  husband 
be  a  handsome  man? 

RANDALL  \^  joining  them  at  the  window'].  One's  hus- 
band never  is,  Ariadne  [^he  sits  by  Lady  Utterword,  on 
her  right']. 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  Ouc's  sistcr's  husband  always  is, 
Mr  Randall. 

LADY  UTTERWORD.  Don't  be  vulgar,  Randall.  And 
you,  Hesione,  are  just  as  bad. 

Ellie  and  Hector  come  in  from  the  garden  by  the  star- 
board door,    Randall  rises.    Ellie  retires  into  the  corner 
near   the   pantry.     Hector   comes  forward;    and   Lady 
Utterword  rises  looking  her  very  best. 
MRS.  HUSHABYE.     Hcctor,  this  is  Addy. 
HECTOR  {apparently  surprised].     Not  this  lady. 
LADY  UTTERWORD  \_smiling].    Why  not.'* 
HECTOR  [looking  at  her  with  a  piercing  glance  of  deep 
but  respectful  admiration^   his  moustache  bristling].     I 
thought  —  \_pulling     himself    together].      I    beg     your 
pardon,   Lady  Utterword.     I   am  extremely  glad  to 
welcome  you  at  last  under  our  roof  [he  ojfers  his  hand 
with  grave  courtesy]. 

MRS  HUSHABYE.    She  wauts  to  be  kissed,  Hector. 
LADY  UTTERWORD.    Hesiouc!    [But  shc  still  smiles.] 
MRS  HUSHABYE.     Call  her  Addy;    and  kiss  her  like 
a  good  brother-in-law;    and  have  done  with  it.     [She 
leaves  them  to  themselves.] 

HECTOR.    Behave  yourself,  Hesione.    Lady  Utterword 
is  entitled  not  only  to  hospitality  but  to  civilization. 


Act  1  Heartbreak  House  35 

LADY  UTTERWORD  [^gratefully].  Thank  you.  Hector. 
[They  shake  hands  cordially.] 

Mazzini  Dunn  is  seen  crossing  the  garden  from  star- 
board  to  port. 

CAPTAIN  SHOTOVER  [coming  from  the  pantry  and 
addressing  Ellie].    Your  father  has  washed  himself. 

ELLiE  [quite  self-possessed].  He  often  does.  Captain 
Shotover. 

CAPTAIN  SHOTOVER.  A  straugc  conversion!  I  saw 
him  through  the  pantry  window. 

Mazzini  Dunn  enters  through  the  port  window  door, 
newly  washed  and  hrushed,  and  stops,  smiling  benevo- 
lently, between  Mangan  and  Mrs  Hushabye. 

MRS  HUSHABYE  [introducing].  Mr  Mazzini  Dunn, 
Lady  Ut — oh,  I  forgot:  youVe  met.  [Indicating 
Ellie]  Miss  Dunn. 

MAZZINI  [walking  across  the  room  to  take  Fine's  hand, 
and  beaming  at  his  own  naughty  irony].  I  have  met 
Miss  Dunn  also.  She  is  my  daughter.  [He  draws  her 
arm  through  his  caressingly^] 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  Of  coufse:  how  stupid!  Mr  Utter- 
word,  my  sister's  —  er  — 

RANDALL  [shaking  hands  agreeably].  Her  brother- 
in-law,  Mr  Dunn.    How  do  you  do? 

MRS  HUSHABYE.    This  is  my  husband. 

HECTOR.  We  have  met,  dear.  Don't  introduce  us 
any  more.  [He  moves  away  to  the  big  chair,  and  adds] 
Won't  you  sit  down.  Lady  Utterword?  [She  does  so 
very  graciously.] 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  Sony.  I  hate  it:  it's  like  making 
people  show  their  tickets. 

MAZZINI  [sententiously].  How  little  it  tells  us,  after 
all!  The  great  question  is,  not  who  we  are,  but  what 
we  are. 

CAPTAIN  SHOTOVER.    Ha!    What  are  you? 

MAZZINI  [taken  aback].    What  am  I? 


36  Heartbreak  House  Act  1 

CAPTAIN  SHOTOVER.  A  thief,  a  pirate,  and  a  mur- 
derer. 

MAzziNi.  I  assure  you  you  are  mistaken. 
CAPTAIN  SHOTOVER.  An  adveuturous  life;  but  what 
does  it  end  in?  Respectability.  A  ladylike  daughter. 
The  language  and  appearance  of  a  city  missionary.  Let 
it  be  a  warning  to  all  of  you  [he  goes  out  through  the 
garden~\. 

DUNN.  I  hope  nobody  here  believes  that  I  am  a 
thief,  a  pirate,  or  a  murderer.  Mrs  Hushabye,  will 
you  excuse  me  a  moment.?  I  must  really  go  and 
explain.     [He  follows  the  captainJ] 

MRS  HUSHABYE  [as  hc  goes'].  It's  no  use.  You'd 
really  better  —  [but  Dunn  has  vanished}.  We  had 
better  all  go  out  and  look  for  some  tea.  We  never 
have  regular  tea;  but  you  can  always  get  some  when 
you  want:  the  servants  keep  it  stewing  all  day.  The 
kitchen  veranda  is  the  best  place  to  ask.  May  I  show 
you?     [She  goes  to  the  starboard  door.] 

RANDALL  [going  with  her].  Thank  you,  I  don't  think 
I'll  take  any  tea  this  afternoon.  But  if  you  will  show 
me  the  garden  — 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  There's  nothing  to  see  in  the 
garden  except  papa's  observatory,  and  a  gravel  pit 
wdth  a  cave  where  he  keeps  dynamite  and  things  of 
that  sort.  However,  it's  pleasanter  out  of  doors;  so 
come  along. 

RANDALL.     Dynamite!    Isn't  that  rather  risky? 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  Well,  wc  dou't  sit  in  the  gravel 
pit  when  there's  a  thunderstorm. 

LADY  UTTERWORD.  That's  Something  new.  What  is 
the  dynamite  for? 

HECTOR.  To  blow  up  the  human  race  if  it  goes  too 
far.  He  is  trying  to  discover  a  psychic  ray  that  will 
explode  all  the  explosive  at  the  will  of  a  Mahatma. 

ELiJE.    The  captain's  tea  is  delicious,  Mr  Utterword. 


Act  1  Heartbreak  House  37 

MRS  HUSHABYE  [^stopping  in  the  doorway]-  Do  you 
mean  to  say  that  you've  had  some  of  my  father's  tea? 
that  you  got  round  him  before  you  were  ten  minutes 
in  the  house? 

ELLIE.     I  did. 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  You  little  devil!  [_She  goes  out  mth 
Randall.] 

MANGAN.    Won't  you  come,  Miss  Ellie? 

ELLIE.  I'm  too  tired.  I'll  take  a  book  up  to  my 
room  and  rest  a  little.     [^SJie  goes  to  the  bookshelf.] 

MANGAN.  Right.  You  Can't  do  better.  But  I'm 
disappointed.    [He  follows  Randall  and  Mrs  Hushabye.] 

Ellie y  Hector y  and  Lady  Utterword  are  left.  Hector  is 
close  to  Lady  Utterword.  They  look  at  Ellie,  waiting  for 
her  to  go. 

ELLIE  [looking  at  the  title  of  a  hook].  Do  you  like 
stories  of  adventure,  Lady  Utterword? 

LADY  UTTERWORD  [patronizingly].    Of  course,  dear. 

ELLIE.  Then  I'll  leave  you  to  Mr  Hushabye.  [She 
goes  out  through  the  hall.] 

HECTOR.  That  girl  is  mad  about  tales  of  adventure. 
The  lies  I  have  to  tell  her! 

LADY  UTTERWORD  [not  interested  in  Ellie].  When 
you  saw  me  what  did  you  mean  by  saying  that  you 
thought,  and  then  stopping  short?  What  did  you 
think? 

HECTOR  [folding  his  arms  and  looking  down  at  her 
magnetically].    May  I  tell  you? 

LADY  UTTERWORD.      Of   COUrSC. 

HECTOR.  It  will  not  sound  very  civil.  I  was  on 
the  point  of  saying,  *T  thought  you  were  a  plain 
woman." 

LADY  UTTERWORD.  Oh,  for  shame.  Hector!  What 
right  had  you  to  notice  whether  I  am  plain  or  not? 

HECTOR.  Listen  to  me,  Ariadne.  Until  today  I  have 
seen  only  photographs  of  you;  and  no  photograph  can 


38  Heartbreak  House  Act  1 

give  the  strange  fascination  of  the  daughters  of  that 
supernatural  old  man.  There  is  some  damnable  quality 
in  them  that  destroys  men's  moral  sense,  and  carries 
them  beyond  honor  and  dishonor.  You  know  that, 
don't  you? 

LADY  UTTERWORD.  Perhaps  I  do,  Hector.  But  let 
me  warn  you  once  for  all  that  I  am  a  rigidly  conven- 
tional woman.  You  may  think  because  I'm  a  Shotover 
that  I'm  a  Bohemian,  because  we  are  all  so  horribly 
Bohemian.  But  I'm  not.  I  hate  and  loathe  Bohemi- 
anism.  No  child  brought  up  in  a  strict  Puritan  house- 
hold ever  suffered  from  Puritanism  as  I  suffered  from 
our  Bohemianism. 

HECTOR.  Our  children  are  like  that.  They  spend 
their  holidays  in  the  houses  of  their  respectable  school- 
fellows. 

LADY  UTTERWORD.    I  shall  invite  them  for  Christmas. 

HECTOR.  Their  absence  leaves  us  both  without  our 
natural  chaperones. 

LADY  UTTERWORD.  Children  are  certainly  very  in- 
convenient sometimes.  But  intelligent  people  can 
always  manage,  unless  they  are  Bohemians. 

HECTOR.  You  are  no  Bohemian;  but  you  are  no 
Puritan  either:  your  attraction  is  alive  and  powerful. 
What  sort  of  woman  do  you  count  yourself? 

LADY  UTTERWORD.  I  am  a  woman  of  the  world. 
Hector;  and  I  can  assure  you  that  if  you  will  only 
take  the  trouble  always  to  do  the  perfectly  correct 
thing,  and  to  say  the  perfectly  correct  thing,  you  can 
do  just  what  you  like.  An  ill-conducted,  careless 
woman  gets  simply  no  chance.  An  ill-conducted, 
careless  man  is  never  allowed  within  arm's  length  of 
any  woman  worth  knowing. 

HECTOR.  I  see.  You  are  neither  a  Bohemian 
woman  nor  a  Puritan  woman.  You  are  a  dangerous 
woman. 


Act  1  Heartbreak  House  39 

LADY  UTTER  WORD.  On  the  Contrary,  I  am  a  safe 
woman. 

HECTOR.  You  are  a  most  accursedly  attractive 
woman.  Mind,  I  am  not  making  love  to  you.  I  do 
not  like  being  attracted.  But  you  had  better  know 
how  I  feel  if  you  are  going  to  stay  here. 

LADY  UTTERWORD.  You  are  an  exceedingly  clever 
lady-killer,  Hector.  And  terribly  handsome.  I  am 
quite  a  good  player,  myself,  at  that  game.  Is  it  quite 
understood  that  we  are  only  playing? 

HECTOR.  Quite.  I  am  deliberately  playing  the  fool, 
out  of  sheer  worthlessness. 

LADY  UTTERWORD  [fisiug  brightly'].  Well,  you  are 
my  brother-in-law.  Hesione  asked  you  to  kiss  me. 
{Jle  seizes  her  in  his  arms  and  kisses  her  strenuously  J^ 
Oh!  that  was  a  little  more  than  play,  brother-in-law. 
[She  "pushes  him  suddenly  away.]  You  shall  not  do 
that  again. 

HECTOR.  In  effect,  you  got  your  claws  deeper  into 
me  than  I  intended. 

MRS  HUSH AB YE  \_coming  in  from  the  garden].  Don't 
let  me  disturb  you;  I  only  want  a  cap  to  put  on  dad- 
diest.  The  sun  is  setting;  and  he'll  catch  cold  [jshe 
makes  for  the  door  leading  to  the  hall]. 

LADY  UTTERWORD.  Your  husbaud  is  quite  charming, 
darling.  He  has  actually  condescended  to  kiss  me 
at  last.  I  shall  go  into  the  garden:  it's  cooler  now 
[she  goes  out  hy  the  port  door]. 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  Take  care,  dear  child.  I  don't  be- 
lieve any  man  can  kiss  Addy  without  falling  in  love 
with  her.    [She  goes  into  the  hall.] 

HECTOR  [striking  himself  on  the  chest].    Fool!    Goat! 

Mrs  Hushahye  comes  back  with  the  captain's  cap. 

HECTOR.  Your  sister  is  an  extremely  enterprising 
old  girl.    Where's  Miss  Dunn! 

MRS  HUSHABYE.    Maugau  says  she  has  gone  up  to 


40  Heartbreak  House  Act  1 

her  room  for  a  nap.  Addy  won't  let  you  talk  to  Ellie: 
she  has  marked  you  for  her  own. 

HECTOR.  She  has  the  diabolical  family  fascination. 
I  began  making  love  to  her  automatically.  What  am 
I  to  do?  I  can't  fall  in  love;  and  I  can't  hurt  a  woman's 
feelings  by  telling  her  so  when  she  falls  in  love  with 
me.  And  as  women  are  always  falhng  in  love  with 
my  moustache  I  get  landed  in  all  sorts  of  tedious 
and  terrifying  flirtations  in  which  I'm  not  a  bit  in 
earnest. 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  Oh,  neither  is  Addy.  She  has  never 
been  in  love  in  her  life,  though  she  has  always  been 
trying  to  fall  in  head  over  ears.  She  is  worse  than  you, 
because  you  had  one  real  go  at  least,  with  me. 

HECTOR.  That  was  a  confounded  madness.  I  can't 
believe  that  such  an  amazing  experience  is  common. 
It  has  left  its  mark  on  me.  I  beheve  that  is  why  I 
have  never  been  able  to  repeat  it. 

MRS  HUSHABYE  [laugMng  and  caressing  his  arm'].  We 
were  frightfully  in  love  with  one  another,  Hector. 
It  was  such  an  enchanting  dream  that  I  have  never  been 
able  to  grudge  it  to  you  or  anyone  else  since.  I  have 
invited  all  sorts  of  pretty  women  to  the  house  on  the 
chance  of  giving  you  another  turn.  But  it  has  never 
come  off. 

HECTOR.  I  don't  know  that  I  want  it  to  come  off. 
It  was  damned  dangerous.  You  fascinated  me;  but 
I  loved  you;  so  it  was  heaven.  This  sister  of  yours 
fascinates  me;  but  I  hate  her;  so  it  is  hell.  I  shall 
kill  her  if  she  persists. 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  Nothing  will  kill  Addy;  she  is  as 
strong  as  a  horse.  [^Releasing  him.']  Now  I  am  going 
off  to  fascinate  somebody. 

HECTOR.    The  Foreign  Oflfice  toff.^*    Randall? 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  Gooducss  gracious,  no!  Why  should 
I  fascinate  him? 


Act  1  Heartbreak  House  41 

HECTOR.  I  presume  you  don't  mean  the  bloated 
capitalist,  Mangan? 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  Hm!  I  think  he  had  better  be 
fascinated  by  me  than  by  Ellie.  [^She  is  going  into 
the  garden  when  the  captain  comes  in  from  it  with  some 
sticks  in  his  handJ]  What  have  you  got  there,  daddiest? 

CAPTAIN  SHOTOVER.    Dynamite. 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  YouVc  been  to  the  gravel  pit. 
Don't  drop  it  about  the  house,  there's  a  dear.  [^She 
goes  into  the  garden,  where  the  evening  light  is  now  very 
redr\ 

HECTOR.  Listen,  O  sage.  How  long  dare  you  con- 
centrate on  a  feeling  without  risking  having  it  fixed 
in  your  consciousness  all  the  rest  of  your  life? 

CAPTAIN  SHOTOVER.  Ninety  minutes.  An  hour  and 
a  half.     [Jle  goes  into  the  pantry r\ 

Hector,  left  alone,  contracts  his  brows,  and  falls  into 
a  day-dream.  He  does  not  move  for  some  time.  Then 
he  folds  his  arms.  Then,  throwing  his  hands  behind 
him,  and  gripping  one  with  the  other,  he  strides  tragically 
once  to  and  fro.  Suddenly  he  snatches  his  walking- 
stick  from  the  teak  table,  and  draws  it;  for  it  is  a  sword- 
stick.  He  fights  a  desperate  duel  with  an  imaginary 
antagonist,  and  after  many  vicissitudes  runs  him  through 
the  body  up  to  the  hilt.  He  sheathes  his  sword  and  throws 
it  on  the  sofa,  falling  into  another  reverie  as  he  does  so. 
He  looks  straight  into  the  eyes  of  an  imaginary  woman; 
seizes  her  by  the  arms;  and  says  in  a  deep  and  thrilling 
tone,  "Do  you  love  me!"  The  captain  comes  out  of 
the  pantry  at  this  moment;  and  Hector,  caught  with  his 
arms  stretched  out  and  his  fists  clenched,  has  to  account 
for  his  attitude  by  going  through  a  series  of  gymnastic 
exercises. 

CAPTAIN  SHOTOVER.  That  sort  of  strength  is  no 
good.    You  will  never  be  as  strong  as  a  gorilla. 

HECTOR.     What  is  the  dynamite  for? 


42  Heartbreak  House  Act  1 

CAPTAIN  SHOTOVER.    To  kill  fellows  like  Mangan. 

HECTOR.  No  use.  They  will  always  be  aJble  to 
buy  more  dynamite  than  you. 

CAPTAIN  SHOTOVER.  I  will  make  a  dynamite  that  he 
cannot  explode. 

HECTOR.     And  that  you  can,  eh? 

CAPTAIN  SHOTOVER.  Yes:  when  I  have  attained  the 
seventh  degree  of  concentration. 

HECTOR.  What's  the  use  of  that?  You  never  do 
attain  it. 

CAPTAIN  SHOTOVER.  What  then  is  to  be  done?  Are 
we  to  be  kept  forever  in  the  mud  by  these  hogs  to 
whom  the  universe  is  nothing  but  a  machine  for  greas- 
ing their  bristles  and  filling  their  snouts? 

HECTOR.  Are  Mangan's  bristles  worse  than  Randall's 
lovelocks? 

CAPTAIN  SHOTOVER.  We  must  wiu  powers  of  life 
and  death  over  them  both.  I  refuse  to  die  until  I 
have  invented  the  means. 

HECTOR.    Who  are  we  that  we  should  judge  them? 

CAPTAIN  SHOTOVER.  What  are  they  that  they  should 
judge  us?  Yet  they  do,  unhesitatingly.  There  is 
enmity  between  our  seed  and  their  seed.  They  know 
it  and  act  on  it,  strangling  our  souls.  They  believe 
in  themselves.  When  we  beheve  in  ourselves,  we  shall 
kill  them. 

HECTOR.  It  is  the  same  seed.  You  forget  that  your 
pirate  has  a  very  nice  daughter.  Mangan's  son  may 
be  a  Plato:  Randall's  a  Shelley.    What  was  my  father? 

CAPTAIN  SHOTOVER.  The  damncdst  scoundrel  I  ever 
met.  \^He  replaces  the  drawing-hoard;  sits  down  at  the 
table;   and  begins  to  mix  a  wash  of  colorr\ 

HECTOR.  Precisely.  Well,  dare  you  kill  his  innocent 
grandchildren? 

CAPTAIN  SHOTOVER.    They  are  mine  also. 

HECTOR.    Just  so.    We  are  members  one  of  another. 


Act  1  Heartbreak  House  43 

[^He  throws  himself  carelessly  on  the  sofa.^  I  tell  you  I 
have  often  thought  of  this  killing  of  human  vermin. 
Many  men  have  thought  of  it.  Decent  men  are  like 
Daniel  in  the  lion's  den:  their  survival  is  a  miracle;  and 
they  do  not  always  survive.  We  live  among  the 
Mangans  and  Randalls  and  Billie  Dunns  as  they,  poor 
devils,  live  among  the  disease  germs  and  the  doctors 
and  the  lawyers  and  the  parsons  and  the  restaurant 
chefs  and  the  tradesmen  and  the  servants  and  all  the 
rest  of  the  parasites  and  blackmailers.  What  are  our 
terrors  to  theirs?  Give  me  the  power  to  kill  them; 
and  I'll  spare  them  in  sheer  — 

CAPTAIN  SHOTOVER  [cutting  in  sharply'].  Fellow 
feeling? 

HECTOR.  No.  I  should  kill  myseK  if  I  believed  that. 
I  must  believe  that  my  spark,  small  as  it  is,  is  divine, 
and  that  the  red  light  over  their  door  is  hell  fire.  I 
should  spare  them  in  simple  magnanimous  pity. 

CAPTAIN  SHOTOVER.  You  Can't  Spare  them  until 
you  have  the  power  to  kill  them.  At  present  they 
have  the  power  to  kill  you.  There  are  millions  of 
blacks  over  the  water  for  them  to  train  and  let  loose 
on  us.  They're  going  to  do  it.  They're  doing  it 
already. 

HECTOR.    They  are  too  stupid  to  use  their  power. 

CAPTAIN  SHOTOVER  [iJirowing  down  his  brush  and 
coming  to  the  end  of  the  sofa].  Do  not  deceive  yourself: 
they  do  use  it.  We  kill  the  better  haK  of  ourselves 
every  day  to  propitiate  them.  The  knowledge  that 
these  people  are  there  to  render  all  our  aspirations 
barren  prevents  us  having  the  aspirations.  And  when 
we  are  tempted  to  seek  their  destruction  they  bring 
forth  demons  to  delude  us,  disguised  as  pretty  daughters, 
and  singers  and  poets  and  the  like,  for  whose  sake  we 
spare  them. 

HECTOR  [sitting  up  and  leaning  towards  him].    May 


44  Heartbreak  House  Act  1 

not  Hesione  be  such  a  demon,  brought  forth  by  you 
lest  I  should  slay  you? 

CAPTAIN  SHOTOVER.  That  is  possiblc.  She  has  used 
you  up,  and  left  you  nothing  but  dreams,  as  some 
women  do. 

HECTOR.     Vampire  women,  demon  women. 

CAPTAIN  SHOTOVER.  Men  think  the  world  well  lost 
for  them,  and  lose  it  accordingly.  Who  are  the  men 
that  do  things?  The  husbands  of  the  shrew  and  of 
the  drunkard,  the  men  with  the  thorn  in  the  flesh. 
[Walking  distractedly  away  towards  the  pantry."]  I 
must  think  these  things  out.  [Turning  suddenly.] 
But  I  go  on  with  the  dynamite  none  the  less.  I  will 
discover  a  ray  mightier  than  any  X-ray:  a  mind  ray 
that  will  explode  the  ammunition  in  the  belt  of 
my  adversary  before  he  can  point  his  gun  at  me. 
And  I  must  hurry.  I  am  old:  I  have  no  time  to 
waste  in  talk  [he  is  about  to  go  into  the  pantry,  and 
Hector  is  making  for  the  hall,  when  Hesione  comes 
back]. 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  Daddicst,  you  and  Hector  must 
come  and  help  me  to  entertain  all  these  people.  What 
on  earth  were  you  shouting  about? 

HECTOR  [stopping  in  the  act  of  turning  the  door  handle]. 
He  is  madder  than  usual. 

MRS  HUSHABYE.     We  all  are. 

HECTOR.  I  must  change  [he  resumes  his  door  open- 
ing]. 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  Stop,  stop.  Comc  back,  both  of 
you.  Come  back.  [They  return,  reluctantly.]  Money 
is  running  short. 

HECTOR.     Money!    Where  are  my  April  dividends? 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  Where  is  the  snow  that  fell  last 
year? 

CAPTAIN  SHOTOVER.  Where  is  all  the  money  you 
had  for  that  patent  lifeboat  I  invented? 


Act  1  Heartbreak  House  45 

MRS  HUSH AB YE.  Fivc  hundred  pounds;  and  I  have 
made  it  last  since  Easter! 

CAPTAIN  SHOTOVER.  Siucc  Eastcr!  Barely  four 
months!  Monstrous  extravagance!  I  could  Uve  for 
seven  years  on  £500. 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  Not  keeping  open  house  as  we  do 
here,  daddiest. 

CAPTAIN  SHOTOVER.  Only  £500  for  that  lifeboat! 
I  got  twelve  thousand  for  the  invention  before  that. 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  Ycs,  dear;  but  that  was  for  the 
ship  with  the  magnetic  keel  that  sucked  up  submarines. 
Living  at  the  rate  we  do,  you  cannot  afford  life-saving 
inventions.  Can't  you  think  of  something  that  will 
murder  half  Europe  at  one  bang? 

CAPTAIN  SHOTOVER.  No.  I  am  ageing  fast.  My 
mind  does  not  dwell  on  slaughter  as  it  did  when  I  was 
a  boy.  Why  doesn't  your  husband  invent  something? 
He  does  nothing  but  tell  lies  to  women. 

HECTOR.  Well,  that  is  a  form  of  invention,  is  it  not? 
However,  you  are  right:  I  ought  to  support  my  wife. 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  Indeed  you  shall  do  nothing  of  the 
sort:  I  should  never  see  you  from  breakfast  to  dinner. 
I  want  my  husband. 

HECTOR  [bitterly].     I  might  as  well  be  your  lapdog. 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  Do  you  Want  to  be  my  breadwinner, 
like  the  other  poor  husbands? 

HECTOR.  No,  by  thunder!  What  a  damned  creature 
a  husband  is  anyhow! 

MRS  HUSHABYE  [to  the  Captain].  What  about  that 
harpoon  cannon? 

CAPTAIN  SHOTOVER.  No  usc.  It  kiUs  wlialcs,  not 
men. 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  Why  not?  You  fire  the  harpoon 
out  of  a  cannon.  It  sticks  in  the  enemy's  general; 
you  wind  him  in;  and  there  you  are. 

HECTOR.    You  are  your  father's  daughter,  Hesione. 


46  Heartbreak  House  Act  1 

CAPTAIN  SHOTOVER.  There  is  something  in  it.  Not 
to  wind  in  generals:  they  are  not  dangerous.  But  one 
could  fire  a  grapnel  and  wind  in  a  machine  gun  or 
even  a  tank.    I  will  think  it  out. 

MRS  HUSHABYE  {^Squeezing  the  eaptain^s  arm  affec- 
tionately].  Saved!  You  are  a  darling,  daddiest.  Now 
we  must  go  back  to  these  dreadful  people  and  entertain 
them. 

CAPTAIN  SHOTOVER.  They  have  had  no  dinner. 
Don't  forget  that. 

HECTOR.  Neither  have  I.  And  it  is  dark:  it  must 
be  all  hours. 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  Oh,  Guiuncss  will  produce  some 
sort  of  dinner  for  them.  The  servants  always  take 
jolly  good  care  that  there  is  food  in  the  house. 

CAPTAIN  SHOTOVER  [raising  a  strange  wail  in  the 
darkness'].     What  a  house!    What  a  daughter! 

MRS  HUSHABYE  [raving].    What  a  father! 

HECTOR  [following  suit].     What  a  husband! 

CAPTAIN  SHOTOVER.    Is  there  no  thunder  in  heaven? 

HECTOR.    Is  there  no  beauty,  no  bravery,  on  earth.? 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  What  do  men  want?  They  have 
their  food,  their  firesides,  their  clothes  mended,  and 
our  love  at  the  end  of  the  day.  Why  are  they  not 
satisfied?  Why  do  they  envy  us  the  pain  with  which 
we  bring  them  into  the  world,  and  make  strange 
dangers  and  torments  for  themselves  to  be  even 
with  us? 

CAPTAIN  SHOTOVER  [weirdly  chanting']. 
I  builded  a  house  for  my  daughters,  and  opened 

the  doors  thereof, 
That  men  might  come  for  their  choosing,   and 

their  betters  spring  from  their  love; 
But  one  of  them  married  a  numskull; 

HECTOR  [taking  up  the  rhythm]. 
The  other  a  liar  wed; 


Act  1  Heartbreak  House  47 

MRS  HUSH AB YE  [^Completing  the  stanza]. 
And  now  must  she  lie  beside  him,  even  as  she  made 
her  bed. 

LADY  UTTERWOED  [^Calling  froTTi  the  garden'].    Hesione ! 
Hesione!    Where  are  you? 

HECTOR.     The  cat  is  on  the  tiles. 

MRS  HUSHABYE.     Coming,  darUng,  coming  \^she  goes 
quickly  into  the  garden]. 

The  captain  goes  back  to  his  place  at  the  table. 

HECTOR  \igoing  out  into  the  hall].    Shall  I  turn  up  the 
lights  for  you? 

CAPTAIN  SHOTOVER.     No.  Givc  me  deeper  darkness. 
Money  is  not  made  in  the  light. 


ACT  II 

The  same  room,  with  the  lights  turned  up  and  the 
curtains  drawn.  Ellie  comes  in,  followed  hy  Mangan, 
Both  are  dressed  for  dinner.  She  strolls  to  the  drawing- 
table.    He  comes  between  the  table  and  the  wicker  chair. 

MANGAN.  What  a  dinner!  I  don't  call  it  a  dinner: 
I  call  it  a  meal. 

ELLIE.  I  am  accustomed  to  meals,  Mr  Mangan,  and 
very  lucky  to  get  them.  Besides,  the  captain  cooked 
some  maccaroni  for  me. 

MANGAN  {^shuddering  liverishly].  Too  rich:  I  can't 
eat  such  things.  I  suppose  it's  because  I  have  to 
work  so  much  with  my  brain.  That's  the  worst  of 
being  a  man  of  business:  you  are  always  thinking, 
thinking,  thinking.  By  the  way,  now  that  we  are 
alone,  may  I  take  the  opportunity  to  come  to  a  httle 
understanding  with  you? 

ELLIE  {^settling  into  the  draughtsman's  seat^.  Cer- 
tainly.   I  should  like  to. 

MANGAN  [taken  aback^.  Should  you?  That  surprises 
me;  for  I  thought  I  noticed  this  afternoon  that  you 
avoided  me  all  you  could.    Not  for  the  first  time  either. 

ELLIE.  I  was  very  tired  and  upset.  I  wasn't  used 
to  the  ways  of  this  extraordinary  house.  Please  for- 
give me. 

MANGAN.  Oh,  that's  all  right:  I  don't  mind.  But 
Captain  Shotover  has  been  talking  to  me  about  you. 
You  and  me,  you  know. 

EiiUE  [interested].  The  captain!  What  did  he  say? 
48 


Act  2  Heartbreak  House  49 

MANGAN.  Well,  he  noticed  the  difference  between 
our  ages. 

ELLiE.    He  notices  everything. 

MANGAN.    You  don't  mind,  then? 

ELLIE.  Of  course  I  know  quite  weU  that  our  engage- 
ment— 

MANGAN.    Oh!  you  call  it  an  engagement. 

ELLIE.    Well,  isn't  it? 

MANGAN.  Oh,  yes,  yes:  no  doubt  it  is  if  you  hold 
to  it.  This  is  the  first  time  you've  used  the  word; 
and  I  didn't  quite  know  where  we  stood:  that's  all. 
[_He  sits  down  in  the  wicker  chair;  and  resigns  him- 
self to  allow  her  to  lead  the  conversation.^  You  were 
saying  — ? 

ELLIE.  Was  I?  I  forget.  Tell  me.  Do  you  like 
this  part  of  the  country?  I  heard  you  ask  Mr  Hush- 
abye  at  dinner  whether  there  are  any  nice  houses  to  let 
down  here. 

MANGAN.  I  like  the  place.  The  air  suits  me.  I 
shouldn't  be  surprised  if  I  settled  down  here. 

ELLIE.  Nothing  would  please  me  better.  The  air 
suits  me  too.    And  I  want  to  be  near  Hesione. 

MANGAN  [with  growing  uneasiness^.  The  air  may 
suit  us;  but  the  question  is,  should  we  suit  one  another? 
Have  you  thought  about  that? 

ELLIE.  Mr  Mangan,  we  must  be  sensible,  mustn't 
we?  It's  no  use  pretending  that  we  are  Romeo  and 
Juliet.  But  we  can  get  on  very  well  together  if  we 
choose  to  make  the  best  of  it.  Your  kindness  of 
heart  will  make  it  easy  for  me. 

MANGAN  [leaning  forward^  yyith  the  beginning  of  some- 
thing like  deliberate  unpleasantness  in  his  voice~].  Kind- 
ness of  heart,  eh?    I  ruined  your  father,  didn't  I? 

ELLIE.    Oh,  not  intentionally. 

MANGAN.    Yes  I  did.     Ruined  him  on  purpose. 

ELLIE.    On  purpose! 


50  Heartbreak  House  Act  2 

manGan.  Not  out  of  ill-nature,  you  know.  And 
you'll  admit  that  I  kept  a  job  for  him  when  I  had 
finished  with  him.  But  business  is  business;  and  I 
ruined  him  as  a  matter  of  business. 

ELLiE.  I  don't  understand  how  that  can  be.  Are 
you  trying  to  make  me  feel  that  I  need  not  be  grate- 
ful to  you,  so  that  I  may  choose  freely.'^ 

MANGAN  [rising  aggressively}.  No.  I  mean  what  I 
say. 

ELLIE.  But  how  could  it  possibly  do  you  any  good  to 
ruin  my  father?    The  money  he  lost  was  yours. 

MANGAN  [with  a  sour  laugh}.  Was  mine!  It  is  mine. 
Miss  Ellie,  and  all  the  money  the  other  fellows  lost 
too.  [He  shoves  his  hands  into  his  pockets  and  shows 
his  teeth.  ]  I  just  smoked  them  out  like  a  hive  of  bees. 
What  do  you  say  to  that?    A  bit  of  shock,  eh? 

ELLIE.  It  would  have  been,  this  morning.  Now! 
you  can't  think  how  Uttle  it  matters.  But  it's  quite 
interesting.  Only,  you  must  explain  it  to  me.  I  don't 
understand  it.  [Propping  her  elbows  on  the  drawing- 
board  and  her  chin  on  her  hands,  she  composes  herself  to 
listen  with  a  combination  of  conscious  curiosity  with 
unconscious  contempt  which  provokes  him  to  more  and 
more  unpleasantness,  and  an  attempt  at  patronage  of  her 
ignorance^ 

MANGAN.  Of  course  you  don't  understand:  what  do 
you  know  about  business?  You  just  listen  and  learn. 
Your  father's  business  was  a  new  business;  and  I  don't 
start  new  businesses:  I  let  other  fellows  start  them. 
They  put  all  their  money  and  their  friends'  money  into 
starting  them.  They  wear  out  their  souls  and  bodies 
trying  to  make  a  success  of  them.  They're  what  you 
call  enthusiasts.  But  the  first  dead  lift  of  the  thing 
is  too  much  for  them;  and  they  haven't  enough  finan- 
cial experience.  In  a  year  or  so  they  have  either  to  let 
the  whole  show  go  bust,  or  sell  out  to  a  new  lot  of  fel- 


Act  2  Heartbreak  House  51 

lows  for  a  few  deferred  ordinary  shares:  that  is,  if 
they're  lucky  enough  to  get  anything  at  all.  As  likely 
as  not  the  very  same  thing  happens  to  the  new  lot. 
They  put  in  more  money  and  a  couple  of  years'  more 
work;  and  then  perhaps  they  have  to  sell  out  to  a 
third  lot.  If  it's  really  a  big  thing  the  third  lot  will 
have  to  sell  out  too,  and  leave  their  work  and  their 
money  behind  them.  And  that's  where  the  real  business 
man  comes  in:  where  I  come  in.  But  I'm  cleverer 
than  some:  I  don't  mind  dropping  a  little  money  to 
start  the  process.  I  took  your  father's  measure.  I  saw 
that  he  had  a  sound  idea,  and  that  he  would  work 
himself  silly  for  it  if  he  got  the  chance.  I  saw  that  he 
was  a  child  in  business,  and  was  dead  certain  to  outrun 
his  expenses  and  be  in  too  great  a  hurry  to  wait  for 
his  market.  I  knew  that  the  surest  way  to  ruin  a  man 
who  doesn't  know  how  to  handle  money  is  to  give  him 
some.  I  explained  my  idea  to  some  friends  in  the  city, 
and  they  found  the  money;  for  I  take  no  risks  in  ideas, 
even  when  they're  my  own.  Your  father  and  the 
friends  that  ventured  their  money  with  him  were  no 
more  to  me  than  a  heap  of  squeezed  lemons.  You've 
been  wasting  your  gratitude:  my  kind  heart  is  all  rot. 
I'm  sick  of  it.  When  I  see  your  father  beaming  at  me 
with  his  moist,  grateful  eyes,  regularly  wallowing  in 
gratitude,  I  sometimes  feel  I  must  teU  him  the  truth 
or  burst.  What  stops  me  is  that  I  know  he  wouldn't 
believe  me.  He'd  think  it  was  my  modesty,  as  you 
did  just  now.  He'd  think  anything  rather  than  the 
truth,  which  is  that  he's  a  blamed  fool,  and  I  am  a 
man  that  knows  how  to  take  care  of  himself.  [_He 
throws  himself  hack  into  the  big  chair  with  large  self- 
approvalJ]  Now  what  do  you  think  of  me,  Miss 
EUie.? 

ELLiE  [^dropping  her  hands'].    How  strange!  that  my 
mother,  who  knew  nothing  at  all  about  business,  should 


52  Heartbreak  House  Act  2 

have  been  quite  right  about  you!  She  always  said  — 
not  before  papa,  of  course,  but  to  us  children  —  that 
you  were  just  that  sort  of  man. 

MANGAN  [^sitting  up,  much  hurt].  Oh!  did  she?  And 
yet  she'd  have  let  you  marry  me. 

ELLiE.  Well,  you  see,  Mr  Mangan,  my  mother  mar- 
ried a  very  good  man  —  for  whatever  you  may  think 
of  my  father  as  a  man  of  business,  he  is  the  soul  of 
goodness  —  and  she  is  not  at  all  keen  on  my  doing  the 
same. 

MANGAN.  Anyhow,  you  don't  want  to  marry  me 
now,  do  you? 

ELLIE  [very  calmly].    Oh,  I  think  so.     Why  not? 

MANGAN  [rising  aghast].     Why  not! 

ELLIE  I  don't  see  why  we  shouldn't  get  on  very 
well  together. 

MANGAN.  Well,  but  look  here,  you  know  —  [he  stops, 
quite  at  a  loss]. 

ELLIE  [patiently].     Well? 

MANGAN.  Well,  I  thought  you  were  rather  particular 
about  people's  characters. 

ELLIE.  If  we  women  were  particular  about  men's 
characters,  we  should  never  get  married  at  all,  Mr 
Mangan. 

MANGAN.  A  child  Hke  you  talking  of  "we  women"! 
What  next!    You're  not  in  earnest? 

ELLIE.    Yes,  I  am.    Aren't  you? 

MANGAN.     You  mean  to  hold  me  to  it? 

ELLIE.     Do  you  wish  to  back  out  of  it? 

MANGAN.    Oh,  no.    Not  exactly  back  out  of  it. 

ELLIE.     Well? 

He  has  nothing  to  say.  With  a  long  whispered  whistle, 
he  drops  into  the  wicker  chair  and  stares  before  him  like 
a  beggared  gambler.  But  a  cunning  look  soon  comes  into 
his  face.  He  leans  over  towards  her  on  his  right  elbow, 
and  speaks  in  a  low  steady  voice. 


Act  2  Heartbreak  House  53 

MANGAN.  Suppose  I  told  you  I  was  in  love  with 
another  woman! 

ELiiiE  ^echoing  hiTri].  Suppose  I  told  you  I  was  in 
love  with  another  man! 

MANGAN  [bouncing  angrily  out  of  his  chairj.  I'm  not 
joking. 

ELLiE.     Who  told  you  /  was? 

MANGAN.  I  tell  you  I'm  serious.  You're  too  young 
to  be  serious;  but  you'll  have  to  believe  me.  I  want 
to  be  near  your  friend  Mrs  Hushabye.  I'm  in  love 
with  her.    Now  the  murder's  out. 

ELLIE.  I  want  to  be  near  your  friend  Mr  Hushabye. 
I'm  in  love  with  him.  [She  rises  and  adds  with  a  frank 
azV]  Now  we  are  in  one  another's  confidence,  we  shall 
be  real  friends.    Thank  you  for  telling  me. 

MANGAN  [almost  beside  himself^-  Do  you  think  I'll  be 
made  a  convenience  of  like  this? 

ELLIE.  Come,  Mr  Mangan!  you  made  a  business 
convenience  of  my  father.  Well,  a  woman's  business 
is  marriage.  Why  shouldn't  I  make  a  domestic  con- 
venience of  you? 

MANGAN.  Because  I  don't  choose,  see?  Because  I'm 
not  a  silly  gull  like  your  father.    That's  why. 

ELLIE  [vjith  serene  contempt^.  You  are  not  good 
enough  to  clean  my  father's  boots,  Mr  Mangan;  and 
I  am  paying  you  a  great  compliment  in  condescending 
to  make  a  convenience  of  you,  as  you  call  it.  Of  course 
you  are  free  to  throw  over  our  engagement  if  you  like; 
but,  if  you  do,  you'll  never  enter  Hesione's  house  again : 
I  will  take  care  of  that. 

MANGAN  [gasping'].  You  little  devil,  you've  done 
me.  [On  the  point  of  collapsing  into  the  big  chair  again 
he  recovers  himself]  Wait  a  bit,  though:  you're  not 
so  cute  as  you  think.  You  can't  beat  Boss  Mangan  as 
easy  as  that.  Suppose  I  go  straight  to  Mrs  Hushabye 
and  tell  her  that  you're  in  love  with  her  husband. 


54  Heartbreak  House  Act  2 

ELLiE.     She  knows  it. 

MANGAN.     You  told  her!!! 

ELLIE.     She  told  me. 

MANGAN  [^clutching  at  his  bursting  temples'].  Oh,  this 
is  a  crazy  house.  Or  else  I'm  going  clean  off  my  chump. 
Is  she  making  a  swop  with  you  —  she  to  have  your 
husband  and  you  to  have  hers.f^ 

ELLIE.    Well,  you  don't  want  us  both,  do  you.? 

MANGAN  [throwing  himself  into  the  chair  distractedly]. 
My  brain  won't  stand  it.  My  head's  going  to  spHt. 
Help!  Help  me  to  hold  it.  Quick:  hold  it:  squeeze  it. 
Save  me.  [_Ellie  comes  behind  his  chair;  clasps  his  head 
hard  for  a  moment;  then  begins  to  draw  her  hands  from 
his  forehead  back  to  his  ears.]  Thank  you.  [Drowsily.] 
That's  very  refreshing.  [Waking  a  little.]  Don't  you 
hypnotize  me,  though.  I've  seen  men  made  fools  of  by 
hypnotism. 

ELLIE  [steadily].  Be  quiet.  I've  seen  men  made 
fools  of  without  hypnotism. 

MANGAN  [humbly].  You  don't  dislike  touching  me, 
I  hope.    You  never  touched  me  before,  I  noticed. 

ELLIE.  Not  since  you  fell  in  love  naturally  with  a 
grown-up  nice  woman,  who  will  never  expect  you  to 
make  love  to  her.  And  I  will  never  expect  him  to  make 
love  to  me. 

MANGAN.    He  may,  though. 

ELLIE  [making  her  passes  rhythmically].  Hush.  Go 
to  sleep.  Do  you  hear?  You  are  to  go  to  sleep,  go  to 
sleep,  go  to  sleep;  be  quiet,  deeply  deeply  quiet;  sleep, 
sleep,  sleep,  sleep,  sleep. 

He  falls  asleep.  Ellie  steals  away;  turns  the  light  out; 
and  goes  into  the  garden. 

Nurse  Guinness  opens  the  door  and  is  seen  in  the  light 
which  comes  in  from  the  hall. 

GUINNESS  [speaking  to  someone  outside].  Mr  Man- 
gan's  not  here,  duckie :  there's  no  one  here.    It's  all  dark. 


Act  2  Heartbreak  House  55 

MRS  mjSKABYE  [wiihout].  Try  the  garden.  Mr  Dunn 
and  I  will  be  in  my  boudoir.     Show  him  the  way. 

GUINNESS.  Yes,  ducky.  \^She  makes  for  the  garden 
door  in  the  dark;  stumbles  over  the  sleeping  Mangan 
and  screams r\  Ahoo!  O  Lord,  sir!  I  beg  your  pardon, 
I'm  sure:  I  didn't  see  you  in  the  dark.  Who  is  it? 
\_She  goes  back  to  the  door  and  turns  on  the  light. ~\  Oh, 
Mr  Mangan,  sir,  I  hope  I  haven't  hurt  you  plumping 
into  your  lap  like  that.  [Coming  to  him!\  I  was  look- 
ing for  you,  sir.  Mrs  Hushabye  says  will  you  please  — 
[noticing  that  he  remains  quite  insensible^.  Oh,  my 
good  Lord,  I  hope  I  haven't  killed  him.  Sir!  Mr 
Mangan!  Sir!  [She  shakes  him;  and  he  is  rolling 
inertly  off  the  chair  on  the  floor  when  she  holds  him  up 
and  props  him  against  the  cushion.']  Miss  Hessy!  Miss 
Hessy!  Quick,  doty  darhng.  Miss  Hessy!  [Mrs 
Hushabye  comes  in  from  the  hall,  followed  by  Maz^ni 
Dunn.']    Oh,  Miss  Hessy,  I've  been  and  killed  him. 

Mazzini  runs  round  the  back  of  the  chair  to  Mangan's 
right  hand,  and  sees  that  the  nurse's  words  are  apparently 
only  too  true. 

MAZZINI.  What  tempted  you  to  commit  such  a  crime, 
woman? 

MRS  HUSHABYE  [trying  not  to  laugh].  Do  you  mean 
you  did  it  on  purpose? 

GUINNESS.  Now  is  it  likely  I'd  kill  any  man  on  pur- 
pose? I  fell  over  him  in  the  dark;  and  I'm  a  pretty 
tidy  weight.  He  never  spoke  nor  moved  until  I  shook 
him;  and  then  he  would  have  dropped  dead  on  the 
floor.     Isn't  it  tiresome? 

MRS  HUSHABYE  [goiug  past  the  nurse  to  Mangan's  side, 
and  inspecting  him  less  credulously  than  Mazzini].  Non- 
sense! he  is  not  dead:  he  is  only  asleep.  I  can  see 
him  breathing. 

GUINNESS.     But  why  won't  he  wake? 

MAZZINI  [speaking  very  politely  into  Mangan's  ear]. 


56  Heartbreak  House  Act  2 

Mangan!  My  dear  Mangan!  [he  blows  into  Mangan's 
ear]^ 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  That's  no  good  [she  shakes  him 
vigorously}.  Mr  Mangan,  wake  up.  Do  you  hear? 
[He  begins  to  roll  over. 2  Oh!  Nurse,  nurse:  he's  falling: 
help  me. 

Nurse  Guinness  rushes  to  the  rescue.  With  Mazzini*s 
assistance,  Mangan  is  propped  safely  up  again. 

GUINNESS  [behind  the  chair;  bending  over  to  test  the  case 
ivith  her  nose].    Would  he  be  drunk,  do  you  think,  pet? 

MRS  HUSHABYE.    Had  he  any  of  papa's  rum? 

MAZZiNi.  It  can't  be  that:  he  is  most  abstemious. 
I  am  afraid  he  drank  too  much  formerly,  and  has  to 
drink  too  little  now.  You  know,  Mrs  Hushabye,  I 
really  think  he  has  been  hypnotized. 

GUINNESS.     Hip  no  what,  sir? 

MAZZINI.  One  evening  at  home,  after  we  had  seen  a 
hypnotizing  performance,  the  children  began  playing 
at  it;  and  EUie  stroked  my  head.  I  assure  you  I  went 
off  dead  asleep;  and  they  had  to  send  for  a  professional 
to  wake  me  up  after  I  had  slept  eighteen  hours.  They 
had  to  carry  me  upstairs;  and  as  the  poor  children 
were  not  very  strong,  they  let  me  slip;  and  I  rolled 
right  down  the  whole  flight  and  never  woke  up.  [Mrs 
Hushabye  splutters.']  Oh,  you  may  laugh,  Mrs  Husha- 
bye; but  I  might  have  been  killed. 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  I  couldn't  have  helped  laughing 
even  if  you  had  been,  Mr  Dunn.  So  Ellie  has  hypno- 
tized him.     What  fun! 

MAZZINI.  Oh  no,  no,  no.  It  was  such  a  terrible 
lesson  to  her:  nothing  would  induce  her  to  try  such 
a  thing  again. 

MRS  HUSHABYE.    Then  who  did  it?    I  didn't. 

MAZZINI.  I  thought  perhaps  the  captain  might  have 
done  it  unintentionally.  He  is  so  fearfully  magnetic: 
I  feel  vibrations  whenever  he  comes  close  to  me. 


Act  2  Heartbreak  House  57 

GUINNESS.  The  captain  will  get  him  out  of  it  any- 
how, sir:  I'll  back  him  for  that.  I'll  go  fetch  him  [_she 
makes  for  the  pantry], 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  Wait  a  bit.  [_To  Mazzini.']  You 
say  he  is  all  right  for  eighteen  hours? 

MAZZINI.     Well,  I  was  asleep  for  eighteen  hours. 

MRS  HUSHABYE.    Were  you  any  the  worse  for  it? 

MAZZINI.  I  don't  quite  remember.  They  had  poured 
brandy  down  my  throat,  you  see;   and  — 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  Quitc.  Auyhow,  you  survived. 
Nurse,  darling:  go  and  ask  Miss  Dunn  to  come  to  us 
here.  Say  I  want  to  speak  to  her  particularly.  You 
will  find  her  with  Mr  Hushabye  probably. 

GUINNESS.  I  think  not,  ducky:  Miss  Addy  is  with 
him.  But  I'll  find  her  and  send  her  to  you.  [_She  goes 
out  into  the  garden.] 

MRS  HUSHABYE  [caUing  Mazzini^s  attention  to  the 
figure  on  the  chair].  Now,  Mr  Dunn,  look.  Just  look. 
Lood  hard.  Do  you  still  intend  to  sacrifice  your 
daughter  to  that  thing? 

MAZZINI  [trouhlecTl.  You  have  completely  upset  me, 
Mrs  Hushabye,  by  all  you  have  said  to  me.  That 
anyone  could  imagine  that  I  —  Z,  a  consecrated  soldier 
of  freedom,  if  I  may  say  so  —  could  sacrifice  ElUe  to 
anybody  or  anyone,  or  that  I  should  ever  have  dreamed 
of  forcing  her  inclinations  in  any  way,  is  a  most  pain- 
ful blow  to  my  —  well,  I  suppose  you  would  say  to  my 
good  opinion  of  myseK. 

MRS  HUSHABYE  [rather  stolidly].    Sorry. 

MAZZINI  [looking  forlornly  at  the  body].  What  is  your 
objection  to  poor  Mangan,  Mrs  Hushabye?  He  looks 
aU  right  to  me.    But  then  I  am  so  accustomed  to  him. 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  Have  you  no  heart?  Have  you  no 
sense?  Look  at  the  brute!  Think  of  poor  weak  inno- 
cent Ellie  in  the  clutches  of  this  slavedriver,  who  spends 
his  life  making  thousands  of  rough  violent  workmen 


58  Heartbreak  House  Act  2 

bend  to  his  will  and  sweat  for  him:  a  man  accustomed 
to  have  great  masses  of  iron  beaten  into  shape  for  him 
by  steam-hammers!  to  fight  with  women  and  girls 
over  a  halfpenny  an  hour  ruthlessly!  a  captain  of  in- 
dustry, I  think  you  call  him,  don't  you?  Are  you 
going  to  fling  your  delicate,  sweet,  helpless  child  into 
such  a  beast's  claws  just  because  he  will  keep  her  in 
an  expensive  house  and  make  her  wear  diamonds  to 
show  how  rich  he  is? 

MAZZiNi  [^staring  at  her  in  wide-eyed  amazement]. 
Bless  you,  dear  Mrs  Hushabye,  what  romantic  ideas  of 
business  you  have!  Poor  dear  Mangan  isn't  a  bit 
like  that. 

MRS  HUSHABYE  [scornfully].  Poor  dear  Mangan  in- 
deed! 

MAZZINI.  But  he  doesn't  know  anything  about  ma- 
chinery. He  never  goes  near  the  men:  he  couldn't 
manage  them:  he  is  afraid  of  them.  I  never  can  get 
him  to  take  the  least  interest  in  the  works:  he  hardly 
knows  more  about  them  than  you  do.  People  are 
cruelly  unjust  to  Mangan:  they  think  he  is  all  rugged 
strength  just  because  his  manners  are  bad. 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  he  isn't 
strong  enough  to  crush  poor  little  Ellie? 

MAZZINI.  Of  course  it's  very  hard  to  say  how  any 
marriage  will  turn  out;  but  speaking  for  myself,  I 
should  say  that  he  won't  have  a  dog's  chance  against 
Ellie.  You  know,  Ellie  has  remarkable  strength  of 
character.  I  think  it  is  because  I  taught  her  to  like 
Shakespeare  when  she  was  very  young. 

MRS  HUSHABYE  [contemytuously].  Shakespeare!  The 
next  thing  you  will  tell  me  is  that  you  could  have 
made  a  great  deal  more  money  than  Mangan.  {She 
retires  to  the  sofa,  and  sits  down  at  the  port  end  of  it  in 
the  worst  of  humor s.~] 

MAZZINI  {follomng  her  and  taking  the  other  end}.    No; 


Act  2  Heartbreak  House  59 

I'm  no  good  at  making  money.  I  don't  care  enough 
for  it,  somehow.  I'm  not  ambitious!  that  must  be  it. 
Mangan  is  wonderful  about  money:  he  thinks  of 
nothing  else.  He  is  so  dreadfully  afraid  of  being  poor. 
I  am  always  thinking  of  other  things:  even  at  the 
works  I  think  of  the  things  we  are  doing  and  not  of 
what  they  cost.  And  the  worst  of  it  is,  poor  Mangan 
doesn't  know  what  to  do  with  his  money  when  he 
gets  it.  He  is  such  a  baby  that  he  doesn't  know  even 
what  to  eat  and  drink:  he  has  ruined  his  Hver  eating 
and  drinking  the  wrong  things;  and  now  he  can  hardly 
eat  at  all.  EUie  will  diet  him  splendidly.  You  will 
be  surprised  when  you  come  to  know  him  better:  he 
is  really  the  most  helpless  of  mortals.  You  get  quite 
a  protective  feeling  towards  him. 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  Then  who  manages  his  business, 
pray? 

MAzziNi.    I  do.    And  of  course  other  people  like  me. 

MRS  HUSHABYE.    FootUng  people,  you  mean. 

MAZZINI.     I  suppose  you'd  think  us  so. 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  And  pray  why  don't  you  do  without 
him  if  you're  all  so  much  cleverer? 

MAZZINI.  Oh,  we  couldn't:  we  should  ruin  the  busi- 
ness in  a  year.  I've  tried;  and  I  know.  We  should 
spend  too  much  on  everything.  We  should  improve 
the  quality  of  the  goods  and  make  them  too  dear. 
We  should  be  sentimental  about  the  hard  cases  among 
the  workpeople.  But  Mangan  keeps  us  in  order.  He 
is  down  on  us  about  every  extra  halfpenny.  We  could 
never  do  without  him.  You  see,  he  will  sit  up  all  night 
thinking  of  how  to  save  sixpence.  Won't  EUie  make 
him  jump,  though,  when  she  takes  his  house  in  hand! 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  Then  the  creature  is  a  fraud  even 
as  a  captain  of  industry! 

MAZZINI.  I  am  afraid  all  the  captains  of  industry 
are  what  you  call  frauds,  Mrs  Hushabye.     Of  course 


60  Heartbreak  House  Act  2 

there  are  some  manufacturers  who  really  do  under- 
stand their  own  works;  but  they  don't  make  as  high 
a  rate  of  profit  as  Mangan  does.  I  assure  you  Mangan 
is  quite  a  good  fellow  in  his  way.    He  means  well. 

MRS  HusHABYE.  He  docsn't  look  well.  He  is  not 
in  his  first  youth,  is  he? 

MAZZiNi.  After  all,  no  husband  is  in  his  first  youth 
for  very  long,  Mrs  Hushabye.  And  men  can't  afford 
to  marry  in  their  first  youth  nowadays.      i 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  Now  if  /  Said  that,  it  would  sound 
witty.  Why  can't  you  say  it  wittily.^  What  on  earth 
is  the  matter  with  you.^*  Why  don't  you  inspire  every- 
body with  confidence?  with  respect? 

MAZZINI  [humbly}.  I  think  that  what  is  the  matter 
with  me  is  that  I  am  poor.  You  don't  know  what  that 
means  at  home.  Mind:  I  don't  say  they  have  ever 
complained.  They've  all  been  wonderful:  they've 
been  proud  of  my  poverty.  They've  even  joked  about 
it  quite  often.  But  my  wife  has  had  a  very  poor  time 
of  it.    She  has  been  quite  resigned  — 

MRS  HUSHABYE  {shuddering  involuntarily']\\ 

MAZZINI.  There!  You  see,  Mrs  Hushabye.  I  don't 
want  Ellie  to  live  on  resignation. 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  Do  you  Want  her  to  have  to  resign 
herself  to  living  with  a  man  she  doesn't  love? 

MAZZINI  [wistfully'}.  Are  you  sure  that  would  be 
worse  than  living  with  a  man  she  did  love,  if  he  was  a 
footling  person? 

MRS  HUSHABYE  [relaxing  her  contemptuous  attitude, 
quite  interested  in  Mazzini  now}.  You  know,  I  really 
think  you  must  love  Ellie  very  much;  for  you  become 
quite  clever  when  you  talk  about  her. 

MAZZINI.  I  didn't  know  I  was  so  very  stupid^  on 
other  subjects. 

MBS  HUSHABYE.    You  are,  sometimes. 
'    MAZzmi  [turning  his  head  away;  for  his  eyes  are  wet}. 


Act  2  Heartbreak  House  61 

I  have  learnt  a  good  deal  about  myself  from  you,  Mrs 
Hushabye;  and  I'm  afraid  I  shall  not  be  the  happier 
for  your  plain  speaking.  But  if  you  thought  I  needed 
it  to  make  me  think  of  EUie's  happiness  you  were  very 
much  mistaken. 

MRS  HUSHABYE  [leaning  towards  him  kindly'].  Have 
I  been  a  beast.? 

MAZZiNi  [pulling  himself  together].  It  doesn't  matter 
about  me,  Mrs  Hushabye.  I  think  you  like  Ellie;  and 
that  is  enough  for  me. 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  I'm  beginning  to  like  you  a  little. 
I  perfectly  loathed  you  at  first.  I  thought  you  the 
most  odious,  self-satisfied,  boresome  elderly  prig  I  ever 
met. 

MAZZINI  [resigned,  and  now  quite  cheerful],  I  daresay 
I  am  all  that.  I  never  have  been  a  favorite  with 
gorgeous  women  like  you.    They  always  frighten  me. 

MRS  HUSHABYE  [pleased].  Am  I  a  gorgeous  woman, 
Mazzini?    I  shall  fall  in  love  with  you  presently. 

MAZzmi  [yyith  placid  gaUantry].  No,  you  won't, 
Hesione.  But  you  would  be  quite  safe.  Would  you 
believe  it  that  quite  a  lot  of  women  have  flirted  with 
me  because  I  am  quite  safe?  But  they  get  tired  of  me 
for  the  same  reason. 

MRS  HUSHABYE  [mischievously].  Take  care.  You 
may  not  be  so  safe  as  you  think. 

MAZZINI.  Oh  yes,  quite  safe.  You  see,  I  have  been 
in  love  really:  the  sort  of  love  that  only  happens 
once.  [Softly.]  That's  why  ElUe  is  such  a  lovely 
girl. 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  Well,  really,  you  are  coming  out. 
Are  you  quite  sure  you  won't  let  me  tempt  you  into  a 
second  grand  passion? 

MAZZINI.  Quite.  It  wouldn't  be  natural.  The  fact 
is,  you  don't  strike  on  my  box,  Mrs  Hushabye;  and  I 
certainly  don't  strike  on  yours. 


62  Heartbreak  House  Act  3 

MES  HUSHABYE.  I  sec.  Your  marriage  was  a  safety 
match. 

MAZZiNi.  What  a  very  witty  application  of  the  ex- 
pression I  used!    I  should  never  have  thought  of  it. 

Ellie  comes  in  from  the  garden,  looking  anything  but 
happy. 

MRS  HUSHABYE  [rising'].  Oh!  here  is  Ellie  at  last. 
[She  goes  behind  the  sofa.] 

ELLIE  [on  the  threshold  of  the  starboard  door].  Guin- 
ness said  you  wanted  me:  you  and  papa. 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  You  havc  kept  us  waiting  so  long 
that  it  almost  came  to  —  well,  never  mind.  Your 
father  is  a  very  wonderful  man  [she  ruffles  his  hair 
affectionately]:  the  only  one  I  ever  met  who  could 
resist  me  when  I  made  myself  really  agreeable.  [She 
comes  to  the  big  chair,  on  Mangan^s  left^  Come  here. 
I  have  something  to  show  you.  [Ellie  strolls  listlessly 
to  the  other  side  of  the  chair ^    Look. 

ELLIE  [contemplating  Mangan  without  interest].  I 
know.  He  is  only  asleep.  We  had  a  talk  after  dinner; 
and  he  fell  asleep  in  the  middle  of  it. 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  You  did  it,  ElUc.  You  put  him 
asleep. 

MAZZINI  [rising  quickly  and  coming  to  the  back  of  the 
chair].    Oh,  I  hope  not.     Did  you,  Ellie.'* 

ELLIE  [wearily].    He  asked  me  to. 

MAZZINI.  But  it's  dangerous.  You  know  what  hap- 
pened to  me. 

ELLIE  [utterly  indifferent].  Oh,  I  daresay  I  can  wake 
him.     If  not,  somebody  else  can. 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  It  docsu't  matter,  anyhow,  because 
I  have  at  last  persuaded  your  father  that  you  don't 
want  to  marry  him. 

ELLIE  [suddenly  coming  out  of  her  listlessness,  m/uch 
vexed].  But  why  did  you  do  that,  Hesione?  I  do 
want  to  marry  him.    I  fully  intend  to  marry  him. 


Act  2  Heartbreak  House  63 

M/N^ziNi.  Are  you  quite  sure,  EUie?  Mrs  Hushabye 
has  made  me  feel  that  I  may  have  been  thoughtless 
and  selfish  about  it. 

ELLiE  [very  clearly  and  steadily'].  Papa.  When  Mrs. 
Hushabye  takes  it  on  herself  to  explain  to  you  what  I 
think  or  don't  think,  shut  your  ears  tight;  and  shut  your 
eyes  too.  Hesione  knows  nothing  about  me:  she 
hasn't  the  least  notion  of  the  sort  of  person  I  am,  and 
never  will.  I  promise  you  I  won't  do  anything  I  don't 
want  to  do  and  mean  to  do  for  my  own  sake. 

MAZZiNi.     You  are  quite,  quite  sure.^ 

ELLiE.  Quite,  quite  sure.  Now  you  must  go  away 
and  leave  me  to  talk  to  Mrs  Hushabye. 

MAZZINI.  But  I  should  like  to  hear.  Shall  I  be  in 
the  way? 

ELLIE  [inexorable'].    I  had  rather  talk  to  her  alone. 

MAZZINI  [affectionately].  Oh,  well,  I  know  what  a 
nuisance  parents  are,  dear.  I  will  be  good  and  go. 
[He  goes  to  the  garden  door.]  By  the  way,  do  you 
remember  the  address  of  that  professional  who  woke 
me  up.^  Don't  you  think  I  had  better  telegraph  to 
him? 

MRS  HUSHABYE  [moving  towards  the  sofa].  It's  too 
late  to  telegraph  tonight. 

MAZZINI.  I  suppose  so.  I  do  hope  he'll  wake  up 
in  the  course  of  the  night.    [He  goes  out  into  the  garden.] 

ELLIE  [turning  vigorously  on  Hesione  the  moment  her 
father  is  out  of  the  room].  Hesione,  what  the  devil 
do  you  mean  by  making  mischief  with  my  father  about 
Mangan? 

MRS  HUSHABYE  [promptly  losing  her  temper].  Don't 
you  dare  speak  to  me  like  that,  you  little  minx.  Re- 
member that  you  are  in  my  house. 

ELLIE.  Stuff!  Why  don't  you  mind  your  own  busi- 
ness? What  is  it  to  you  whether  I  choose  to  marry 
Mangan  or  not? 


64  Heartbreak  House  Act  2 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  Do  you  suppose  you  can  bully 
me,  you  miserable  little  matrimonial  adventurer? 

ELLiE.  Every  woman  who  hasn't  any  money  is  a 
matrimonial  adventurer.  It's  easy  for  you  to  talk: 
you  have  never  known  what  it  is  to  wait  money; 
and  you  can  pick  up  men  as  if  they  were  daisies.  I 
am  poor  and  respectable  — 

MRS  HUSHABYE  [interrupting'].  Ho!  respectable! 
How  did  you  pick  up  Mangan?  How  did  you  pick 
up  my  husband.'^  You  have  the  audacity  to  tell  me 
that  I  am  a  —  a  —  a  — 

ELLIE.  A  siren.  So  you  are.  You  were  born  to 
lead  men  by  the  nose:  if  you  weren't,  Marcus  would 
have  waited  for  me,  perhaps. 

MRS  HUSHABYE  [suddenly  melting  and  half  laughing]. 
Oh,  my  poor  Ellie,  my  pettikins,  my  unhappy  darling! 
I  am  so  sorry  about  Hector.  But  what  can  I  do? 
It's  not  my  fault:    I'd  give  him  to  you  if  I  could. 

ELLIE.    I  don't  blame  you  for  that. 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  What  a  brute  I  was  to  quarrel 
with  you  and  call  you  names!  Do  kiss  me  and  say 
you're  not  angry  with  me. 

ELLIE  [fiercely].  Oh,  don't  slop  and  gush  and  be  senti- 
mental. Don't  you  see  that  unless  I  can  be  hard  — 
as  hard  as  nails — I  shall  go  mad?  I  don't  care  a  damn 
about  your  calling  me  names:  do  you  think  a  woman 
in  my  situation  can  feel  a  few  hard  words? 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  Poor  little  woman!  Poor  little 
situation ! 

ELLIE.  I  suppose  you  think  you're  being  sympa- 
thetic. You  are  just  foolish  and  stupid  and  selfish. 
You  see  me  getting  a  smasher  right  in  the  face  that 
kills  a  whole  part  of  my  life:  the  best  part  that  can 
never  come  again;  and  you  think  you  can  help  me 
over  it  by  a  little  coaxing  and  kissing.  When  I  want 
all  the  strength  I  can  get  to  lean  on:   something  iron. 


Act  2  Heartbreak  House  65 

something  stony,  I  don't  care  how  cruel  it  is,  you  go 
all  mushy  and  want  to  slobber  over  me.  I'm  not 
angry;  I'm  not  unfriendly;  but  for  God's  sake  do 
pull  yourself  together;  and  don't  think  that  because 
you're  on  velvet  and  always  have  been,  women  who 
are  in  hell  can  take  it  as  easily  as  you. 

MBS  HUSHABYE  [^shrugging  her  shoulders']^  Very  well. 
[^She  sits  down  on  the  sofa  in  her  old  place.']  But  I 
warn  you  that  when  I  am  neither  coaxing  and  kissing 
nor  laughing,  I  am  just  wondering  how  much  longer 
I  can  stand  living  in  this  cruel,  damnable  world.  You 
object  to  the  siren:  well,  I  drop  the  siren.  You  want 
to  rest  your  wounded  bosom  against  a  grindstone. 
Well  \_folding  her  arms]y  here  is  the  grindstone. 

ELLiE  {sitting  down  beside  her,  appeased].  That's 
better:  you  really  have  the  trick  of  falling  in  with 
everyone's  mood;  but  you  don't  understand,  because 
you  are  not  the  sort  of  woman  for  whom  there  is  only 
one  man  and  only  one  chance. 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  I  Certainly  don't  understand  how 
your  marrying  that  object  [indicating  Mangan]  will 
console  you  for  not  being  able  to  marry  Hector. 

ELLIE.  Perhaps  you  don't  understand  why  I  was 
quite  a  nice  girl  this  morning,  and  am  now  neither  a 
girl  nor  particularly  nice. 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  Oh,  ycs,  I  do.  It's  bccausc  you  have 
made  up  your  mind  to  do  something  despicable  and 
wicked. 

ELLIE.  I  don't  think  so,  Hesione.  I  must  make  the 
best  of  my  ruined  house. 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  Pooh!  You'U  get  over  it.  Your 
house  isn't  ruined. 

ELLIE.  Of  course  I  shall  get  over  it.  You  don't 
suppose  I'm  going  to  sit  down  and  die  of  a  broken 
heart,  I  hope,  or  be  an  old  maid  living  on  a  pittance 
from  the  Sick  and  Indigent  Roomkeepers'  Associa- 


66  Heartbreak  House  Act  2 

tion.  But  my  heart  is  broken,  all  the  same.  What 
I  mean  by  that  is  that  I  know  that  what  has  happened 
to  me  with  Marcus  will  not  happen  to  me  ever  again. 
In  the  world  for  me  there  is  Marcus  and  a  lot  of  other 
men  of  whom  one  is  just  the  same  as  another.  Well, 
if  I  can't  have  love,  that's  no  reason  why  I  should  have 
poverty.    If  Mangan  has  nothing  else,  he  has  money. 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  And  are  there  no  young  men  with 
money. 

ELLiE.  Not  within  my  reach.  Besides,  a  young 
man  would  have  the  right  to  expect  love  from  me, 
and  would  perhaps  leave  me  when  he  found  I  could 
not  give  it  to  him.  Rich  young  men  can  get  rid  of 
their  wives,  you  know,  pretty  cheaply.  But  this 
object,  as  you  call  him,  can  expect  nothing  more  from 
me  than  I  am  prepared  to  give  him. 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  He  will  bc  your  owner,  remember. 
If  he  buys  you,  he  will  make  the  bargain  pay  him  and 
not  you.    Ask  your  father. 

ELLiE  [rising  and  strolling  to  the  chair  to  contemplate 
their  subject'].  You  need  not  trouble  on  that  score,  Hesi- 
one.  I  have  more  to  give  Boss  Mangan  than  he  has  to 
give  me:  it  is  I  who  am  buying  him,  and  at  a  pretty 
good  price  too,  I  think.  Women  are  better  at  that  sort 
of  bargain  than  men.  I  have  taken  the  Boss's  measure; 
and  ten  Boss  Mangans  shall  not  prevent  me  doing  far 
more  as  I  please  as  his  wife  than  I  have  ever  been  able 
to  do  as  a  poor  girl.  [Stooping  to  the  recumbent  figure.] 
Shall  they.  Boss?  I  think  not.  [She  passes  on  to 
the  drawing-table^  and  leans  against  the  end  of  it,  facing 
the  windows.]  I  shall  not  have  to  spend  most  of  my 
time  wondering  how  long  my  gloves  will  last,  anyhow. 

MRS  HUSHABYE  [rising  superbly].  EUie,  you  are  a 
wicked,  sordid  little  beast.  And  to  think  that  I  actually 
condescended  to  fascinate  that  creature  there  to  save 
you  from  him!  Well,  let  me  tell  you  this:  if  you  make 


Act  2  Heartbreak  House  67 

this  disgusting  match,  you  will  never  see  Hector  again 
if  I  can  help  it. 

ELLIE  [unmoved].  I  nailed  Mangan  by  telling  him 
that  if  he  did  not  marry  me  he  should  never  see  you 
again  [she  lifts  herself  on  her  tmrists  and  seats  herself 
on  the  end  of  the  table]. 

MRS  HUSHABYE  [recoiUng'].    Oh! 

ELLIE.  So  you  see  I  am  not  unprepared  for  your 
playing  that  trump  against  me.  Well,  you  just  try 
it:  that's  all.  I  should  have  made  a  man  of  Marcus, 
not  a  household  pet. 

MRS  HUSHABYE  [flaming'].    You  dare! 

ELLIE  [looking  almost  dangerous].  Set  him  thinking 
about  me  if  you  dare. 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  Well,  of  all  the  impudent  little 
fiends  I  ever  met !  Hector  says  there  is  a  certain  point 
at  which  the  only  answer  you  can  give  to  a  man  who 
breaks  all  the  rules  is  to  knock  him  down.  What 
would  you  say  if  I  were  to  box  your  ears? 

ELLIE  [calmly].    I  should  pull  your  hair. 

MRS  HUSHABYE  [mischievously].  That  wouldn't 
hurt  me.    Perhaps  it  comes  off  at  night. 

ELLIE  [so  taken  aback  that  she  drops  off  the  table  and 
runs  to  her].  Oh,  you  don't  mean  to  say,  Hesione, 
that  your  beautiful  black  hair  is  false? 

MRS  HUSHABYE  [patting  it].  Don't  tell  Hector. 
He  believes  in  it. 

ELLIE  [groaning].  Oh!  Even  the  hair  that  en- 
snared him  false!    Everything  false! 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  PuU  it  and  try.  Other  women  can 
snare  men  in  their  hair;  but  I  can  swing  a  baby  on 
mine.    Aha!  you  can't  do  that,  Goldylocks. 

ELLIE  [heartbroken].  No.  You  have  stolen  my 
babies. 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  Pcttikius,  dou't  make  me  cry. 
You  know  what  you  said  about  my  making  a  house- 


68  Heartbreak  House  Act  2 

hold  pet  of  him  is  a  Httle  true.  Perhaps  he  ought  to 
have  waited  for  you.  Would  any  other  woman  on 
earth  forgive  you? 

ELLiE.  Oh,  what  right  had  you  to  take  him  all 
for  yourself!  [^Pulling  herself  together.']  There!  You 
couldn't  help  it:  neither  of  us  could  help  it.  He 
couldn't  help  it.  No,  don't  say  anything  more:  I  can't 
bear  it.  Let  us  wake  the  object.  [^She  begins  stroking 
Mangan*s  head,  reversing  the  movement  vnth  which  she 
put  him  to  sleep,']  Wake  up,  do  you  hear.?  You  are  to 
wake  up  at  once.     Wake  up,  wake  up,  wake  — 

MANGAN  [bouncing  out  of  the  chair  in  a  fury  and 
turning  on  them].  Wake  up!  So  you  think  I've  been 
asleep,  do  you.f*  [He  kicks  the  chair  violently  back  out 
of  his  wayy  and  gets  between  them.]  You  throw  me 
into  a  trance  so  that  I  can't  move  hand  or  foot  —  I 
might  have  been  buried  alive!  it's  a  mercy  I  wasn't 
—  and  then  you  think  I  was  only  asleep.  K  you'd 
let  me  drop  the  two  times  you  rolled  me  about,  my 
nose  would  have  been  flattened  for  life  against  the 
floor.  But  I've  found  you  all  out,  anyhow.  I  know 
the  sort  of  people  I'm  among  now.  I've  heard  every 
word  you've  said,  you  and  your  precious  father,  and 
[to  Mrs  Hushabye]  you  too.  So  I'm  an  object,  am 
I?  I'm  a  thing,  am  1?  I'm  a  fool  that  hasn't  sense 
enough  to  feed  myself  properly,  am  I?  I'm  afraid  of 
the  men  that  would  starve  if  it  weren't  for  the  wages  I 
give  them,  am  I?  I'm  nothing  but  a  disgusting  old 
skinflint  to  be  made  a  convenience  of  by  designing 
women  and  fool  managers  of  my  works,  am  I?    I'm  — 

MRS  HUSHABYE  [v)ith  the  most  elegant  aplomb], 
Sh-sh-sh-sh-sh !  Mr  Mangan,  you  are  bound  in 
honor  to  obliterate  from  your  mind  all  you  heard 
while  you  were  pretending  to  be  asleep.  It  was  not 
meant  for  you  to  hear. 

MANGAN.    Pretending  to  be  asleep!     Do  you  think 


Act  2  Heartbreak  House  69 

if  I  was  only  pretending  that  I'd  have  sprawled  there 
helpless,  and  listened  to  such  unfairness,  such  lies, 
such  injustice  and  plotting  and  backbiting  and  slander- 
ing of  me,  if  I  could  have  up  and  told  you  what  I 
thought  of  you!    I  wonder  I  didn't  burst. 

MRS  HUSHABYE  [^sweeUy'].  You  dreamt  it  all,  Mr 
Mangan.  We  were  only  saying  how  beautifully 
peaceful  you  looked  ui  your  sleep.  That  was  all, 
wasn't  it,  Ellie?  Believe  me,  Mr  Mangan,  all  those 
unpleasant  things  came  into  your  mind  in  the  last 
half  second  before  you  woke.  EUie  rubbed  your 
hair  the  wrong  way;  and  the  disagreeable  sensation 
suggested  a  disagreeable  dream. 

MANGAN  ^doggedly'].    I  believe  in  dreams. 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  So  do  I.  But  they  go  by  con- 
traries, don't  they? 

MANGAN  [^depths  of  emotion  svddenly  welling  up 
in  hint].  I  shan't  forget,  to  my  dying  day,  that  when 
you  gave  me  the  glad  eye  that  time  in  the  garden, 
you  were  making  a  fool  of  me.  That  was  a  dirty  low 
mean  thing  to  do.  You  had  no  right  to  let  me  come 
near  you  if  I  disgusted  you.  It  isn't  my  fault  if  I'm 
old  and  haven't  a  moustache  like  a  bronze  candle- 
stick as  your  husband  has.  There  are  things  no  decent 
woman  would  do  to  a  man  —  like  a  man  hitting  a 
woman  in  the  breast. 

Hesioney  utterly  shamed,  sits  down  on  the  sofa  and 
covers  her  face  with  her  hands.  Mangan  sits  dovm  also 
on  his  chair  and  begins  to  cry  like  a  child.  Ellie  stares 
at  them.  Mrs  Hv^hahyey  at  the  distressing  sound  he 
makeSy  takes  down  her  hands  and  looks  at  him.  She 
rises  and  runs  to  him. 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  Don't  cry:  I  can't  bear  it.  Have 
I  broken  your  heart?  I  didn't  know  you  had  one. 
How  could  I? 

MANGAN.    I'm  a  man,  ain't  I? 


70  Heartbreak  House  Act  2 

MRS  HUSHABYE  [half  coaxinQy  half  rallying,  alto- 
gether tenderly].  Oh  no:  not  what  I  call  a  man.  Only 
a  Boss:  just  that  and  nothing  else.  What  business 
has  a  Boss  with  a  heart? 

MANGAN.  Then  you're  not  a  bit  sorry  for  what  you 
did,  nor  ashamed? 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  I  was  ashamed  for  the  first  time 
in  my  life  when  you  said  that  about  hitting  a  woman 
in  the  breast,  and  I  found  out  what  I*d  done.  My 
very  bones  blushed  red.  YouVe  had  your  revenge, 
Boss.    Aren*t  you  satisfied? 

MANGAN.  Serve  you  right!  Do  you  hear?  Serve 
you  right!    You're  just  cruel.    Cruel. 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  Ycs:  cruclty  would  be  delicious 
if  one  could  only  find  some  sort  of  cruelty  that  didn't 
really  hurt.  By  the  way  [sitting  down  beside  him  on 
the  arm  of  the  chair~]y  what's  your  name?  It's  not 
really  Boss,  is  it? 

MANGAN  [shortly"].  If  you  want  to  know,  my  name's 
Alfred. 

MRS  HUSHABYE  [springs  uj)].  Alfred!!  Ellie,  he 
was  christened  after  Tennyson!!! 

MANGAN  [rising].  I  was  christened  after  my  uncle, 
and  never  had  a  penny  from  him,  damn  him!  What 
of  it? 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  It  comes  to  me  suddenly  that  you 
are  a  real  person:  that  you  had  a  mother,  like  anyone 
else.  [Putting  her  hands  on  his  shoulders  and  survey- 
ing him.]    Little  Alf ! 

MANGAN.    Well,  you  have  a  nerve. 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  And  you  have  a  heart,  Alfy,  a 
whimpering  little  heart,  but  a  real  one.  [Releasing 
him  suddenly.]  Now  run  and  make  it  up  with  Ellie. 
She  has  had  time  to  think  what  to  say  to  you,  which 
is  more  than  I  had  [she  goes  out  quickly  into  the  garden 
by  the  port  door]. 


Act  2  Heartbreak  House  71 

MANGAN.  That  woman  has  a  pair  of  hands  that 
go  right  through  you. 

ELLIE.  Still  in  love  with  her,  in  spite  of  all  we  said 
about  you? 

MANGAN.  Are  all  women  like  you  two.''  Do  they 
never  think  of  anything  about  a  man  except  what 
they  can  get  out  of  him.''  You  weren't  even  thinking 
that  about  me.  You  were  only  thinking  whether 
your  gloves  would  last. 

ELLIE.  I  shall  not  have  to  think  about  that  when 
we  are  married. 

MANGAN.  And  you  think  I  am  going  to  marry  you 
after  what  I  heard  there! 

ELLIE.  You  heard  nothing  from  me  that  I  did  not 
tell  you  before. 

MANGAN.  Perhaps  you  think  I  can't  do  without 
you. 

ELLIE.  I  think  you  would  feel  lonely  without  us 
all,  now,  after  coming  to  know  us  so  well. 

MANGAN  [with  something  like  a  yell  of  despair]. 
Am  I  never  to  have  the  last  word? 

CAPTAIN  SHOTOVER  [appearing  at  the  starboard 
garden  door].  There  is  a  soul  in  torment  here.  What 
is  the  matter? 

MANGAN.  This  girl  doesn't  want  to  spend  her  Kfe 
wondering  how  long  her  gloves  will  last. 

CAPTAIN  SHOTOVER  [passing  through].  Don't  wear 
any.    I  never  do  [he  goes  into  the  pantry]. 

LADY  UTTERWORD  [appearing  at  the  port  garden  door, 
in  a  handsome  dinner  dress].    Is  anything  the  matter? 

ELLIE.  This  gentleman  wants  to  know  is  he  never 
to  have  the  last  word? 

LADY  UTTERWORD  [coming  forward  to  the  sofa].  I 
should  let  him  have  it,  my  dear.  The  important  thing 
is  not  to  have  the  last  word,  but  to  have  your  own 
way. 


72  Heartbreak  House  Act  2 

MANGAN.    She  wants  both. 

LADY  UTTERWORD.  She  won't  get  them,  Mr  Mangan. 
Providence  always  has  the  last  word. 

MANGAN  [desperately'}.  Now  you  are  going  to 
come  religion  over  me.  In  this  house  a  man's  mind 
might  as  well  be  a  football.  I'm  going.  [He  makes  for 
the  hall,  but  is  stopped  by  a  hail  from  the  Captain,  who 
has  just  emerged  from  his  pantry}. 

CAPTAIN  SHOTOVER.    Whither  away,  Boss  Mangan? 

MANGAN.  To  hell  out  of  this  house:  let  that  be 
enough  for  you  and  all  here. 

CAPTAIN  SHOTOVER.  You  Were  welcome  to  come: 
you  are  free  to  go.  The  wide  earth,  the  high  seas, 
the  spacious  skies  are  waiting  for  you  outside. 

LADY  UTTERWORD.  But  your  things,  Mr  Mangan. 
Your  bag,  your  comb  and  brushes,  your  pyjamas  — 

HECTOR  [who  has  just  appeared  in  the  port  doorway 
in  a  handsome  Arab  costume}.  Why  should  the  escap- 
ing slave  take  his  chains  with  him? 

MANGAN.  That's  right,  Hushabye.  Keep  the 
pyjamas,  my  lady,  and  much  good  may  they  do  you. 

HECTOR  [advancing  to  Lady  Utterword's  left  hand}. 
Let  us  all  go  out  into  the  night  and  leave  everything 
behind  us. 

MANGAN.  You  Stay  where  you  are,  the  lot  of  you. 
I  want  no  company,  especially  female  company. 

ELLiE.  Let  him  go.  He  is  unhappy  here.  He  is 
angry  with  us. 

CAPTAIN  SHOTOVER.  Go,  Boss  Maugau;  and  when 
you  have  found  the  land  where  there  is  happiness 
and  where  there  are  no  women,  send  me  its  latitude 
and  longitude;  and  I  will  join  you  there. 

LADY  UTTERWORD.  You  will  Certainly  not  be  com- 
fortable without  your  luggage,  Mr  Mangan. 

ELLIE  [impatient}.  Go,  go:  why  don't  you  go?  It 
is  a  heavenly  night:    you  can  sleep  on  the  heath. 


Act  2  Heartbreak  House  73 

Take  my  waterproof  to  lie  on:  it  is  hanging  up  in 
the  hall. 

HECTOR.  Breakfast  at  nine,  unless  you  prefer  to 
breakfast  with  the  captain  at  six. 

ELLiE.    Good  night,  Alfred. 

HECTOR.  Alfred!  \^He  runs  back  to  the  door  and 
calls  into  the  gardenr\  Randall,  Mangan's  Christian 
name  is  Alfred. 

RANDALL  [appearing  in  the  starboard  doorway  in 
evening  dress~\.    Then  Hesione  wins  her  bet. 

Mrs  Hushabye  appears  in  the  port  doorway.  She 
throws  her  left  arm  round  Hector's  neck:  draws  him  with 
her  to  the  back  of  the  sofa:  and  throws  her  right  arm 
round  Lady  Utterword* s  neck. 

MRS  HUSHABYE.    They  wouldn't  believe  me,  Alf. 

They  contemplate  him. 

MANGAN.  Is  there  any  more  of  you  coming  in  to 
look  at  me,  as  if  I  was  the  latest  thing  in  a  menagerie? 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  You  are  the  latest  thing  in  this 
menagerie. 

Before  Mangan  can  retort,  a  fall  of  furniture  is  heard 
from  upstairs:  then  a  pistol  shot,  and  a  yell  of  pain. 
The  staring  group  breaks  up  in  consternation. 

MAzziNi's  VOICE  [_from  above"}.  Help!  A  burglar! 
Help! 

HECTOR  {_his  eyes  blazing}.    A  burglar!!! 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  No,  Hcctor:  you'll  be  shot  [but 
it  is  too  late;  he  has  dashed  out  past  Mangan,  who 
hastily  moves  towards  the  bookshelves  out  of  his  way}. 

CAPTAIN  SHOTOVER  [blowing  his  whistle}.  All  hands 
aloft!    [He  strides  out  after  Hector.} 

LADY  UTTERWORD.  My  diamonds !  [She  follows  the 
captain.} 

RANDALL  [rusMug  after  her}.    No,  Ariadne.    Let  me. 

ELLIE.    Oh,  is  papa  shot?   [She  runs  out.} 

MRS  HUSHABYE.    Are  you  frightened,  Alf? 


74  Heartbreak  House  Act  2 

MANGAN.    No.    It  ain't  my  house,  thank  God. 

MRS  HUSH AB YE.  If  they  catch  a  burglar,  shall  we 
have  to  go  into  court  as  witnesses,  and  be  asked  all 
sorts  of  questions  about  our  private  lives  .^ 

MANGAN.  You  won't  be  believed  if  you  tell  the 
truth. 

Mazzini,  terribly  upset,  vnth  a  duelling  pistol  in  his 
handy  comes  from  the  hall,  and  makes  his  way  to  the 
drawing-table. 

MAZZiNi.  Oh,  my  dear  Mrs  Hushabye,  I  might  have 
killed  him.  [_He  throws  the  pistol  on  the  table  and  staggers 
round  to  the  chair,']  I  hope  you  won't  believe  I  really 
intended  to. 

Hector  comes  in,  marching  an  old  and  villainous 
looking  man  before  him  by  the  collar.  He  plants  him 
in  the  middle  of  the  room  and  releases  him. 

Ellie  follows,  and  immediately  runs  across  to  the 
back  of  her  father's  chair  and  pats  his  shoulders. 

RANDALL  [^entering  vyith  a  poker].  Keep  your  eye 
on  this  door,  Mangan.  I'll  look  after  the  other 
\Jie  goes  to  the  starboard  door  and  stands  on  guard 
there]. 

Lady  Utterword  comes  in  after  Randall^  and  goes 
between  Mrs  Hushabye  and  Mangan. 

Nurse  Guinness  brings  up  the  rear,  and  waits  near 
the  door,  on  Mangan' s  left. 

MRS  HUSHABYE.    What  has  happened.'^ 

MAZZINI.  Your  housekeeper  told  me  there  was 
somebody  upstairs,  and  gave  me  a  pistol  that  Mr 
Hushabye  had  been  practising  with.  I  thought  it 
would  frighten  him;  but  it  went  off  at  a  touch. 

THE  BURGLAR.  Ycs,  and  took  the  skin  off  my  ear. 
Precious  near  took  the  top  off  my  head.  Why  don't 
you  have  a  proper  revolver  instead  of  a  thing  like 
that,  that  goes  off  if  you  as  much  as  blow  on  it.? 

HECTOR.    One  of  my  duelling  pistols.    Sorry. 


Act  2  Heartbreak  House  75 

MAZZiNi.  He  put  his  hands  up  and  said  it  was  a 
fair  cop. 

THE  BURGLAR.    So  it  was.    Send  for  the  police. 

HECTOR.  No,  by  thunder!  It  was  not  a  fair  cop. 
We  were  four  to  one. 

MRS  HUSH AB YE.    What  wiU  they  do  to  him.? 

THE  BURGLAR.  Ten  ycars.  Beginning  with  solitary. 
Ten  years  off  my  life.  I  shan't  serve  it  all:  I'm  too 
old.    It  will  see  me  out. 

LADY  UTTERWORD.  You  should  havc  thought  of 
that  before  you  stole  my  diamonds. 

THE  BURGLAR.  Well,  you'vc  got  them  back,  lady, 
haven't  you.f^  Can  you  give  me  back  the  years  of  my 
life  you  are  going  to  take  from  me.^^ 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  Oh,  wc  Can't  bury  a  man  alive  for 
ten  years  for  a  few  diamonds. 

THE  BURGLAR.  Ten  little  shining  diamonds!  Ten 
long  black  years ! 

LADY  UTTERWORD.  Think  of  what  it  is  for  us  to  be 
dragged  through  the  horrors  of  a  criminal  court, 
and  have  all  our  family  affairs  in  the  papers!  If  you 
were  a  native,  and  Hastings  could  order  you  a  good 
beating  and  send  you  away,  I  shouldn't  mind;  but 
here  in  England  there  is  no  real  protection  for  any 
respectable  person. 

THE  BURGLAR.  I'm  too  old  to  be  giv  a  hiding,  lady. 
Send  for  the  police  and  have  done  with  it.  It's  only 
just  and  right  you  should. 

RANDALL  \jvho  kas  relaxed  his  vigilance  on  seeing  the 
burglar  so  pacifically  disposed,  and  comes  forward 
swinging  the  poker  between  his  fingers  like  a  well-folded 
umbrella'].  It  is  neither  just  nor  right  that  we  should 
be  put  to  a  lot  of  inconvenience  to  gratify  your  moral 
enthusiasm,  my  friend.  You  had  better  get  out, 
while  you  have  the  chance. 

THE  BURGLAR  [inexorably].     No.     I  must  work  my 


76  Heartbreak  House  Act  2 

sin  off  my  conscience.  This  has  come  as  a  sort  of 
call  to  me.  Let  me  spend  the  rest  of  my  life  repenting 
in  a  cell.    I  shall  have  my  reward  above. 

MANGAN  [^exasperated^.  The  very  bm-glars  can't 
behave  naturally  in  this  house. 

HECTOR.  My  good  sir,  you  must  work  out  your 
salvation  at  somebody  else's  expense.  Nobody  here 
is  going  to  charge  you. 

THE  BURGLAR.  Oh,  you  wou't  charge  me,  won't 
you? 

HECTOR.  No.  I'm  sorry  to  be  inhospitable;  but 
will  you  kindly  leave  the  house.? 

THE  BURGLAR.  Right.  I'll  go  to  the  police  station 
and  give  myself  up.  [He  turns  resolutely  to  the  door: 
but  Hector  stops  him.~] 

HECTOR.  1    f  Oh  no.    You  musn't  do  that. 

RANDALL.  No,  no.     Clear  out,  man,  can't 

•  \      you;    and  don't  be  a  fool. 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  Dou't  be  SO  silly.  Can't  you 
[      repent  at  home.'^ 

LADY  UTTER  WORD.  You  will  havc  to  do  as  you  are 
told. 

THE  BURGLAR.  It's  compouudiug  a  felony,  you 
know. 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  This  is  Utterly  ridiculous.  Are 
we  to  be  forced  to  prosecute  this  man  when  we  don't 
want  to? 

THE  BURGLAR.  Am  I  to  bc  Tobbcd  of  my  salvation 
to  save  you  the  trouble  of  spending  a  day  at  the  ses- 
sions?   Is  that  justice?    Is  it  right?    Is  it  fair  to  me? 

MAZZiNi  [rising  and  leaning  across  the  table  persua- 
sively as  if  it  were  a  pulpit  desk  or  a  shop  counter^- 
Come,  come !  let  me  show  you  how  you  can  turn  your 
very  crimes  to  account.  Why  not  set  up  as  a  lock- 
smith? You  must  know  more  about  locks  than  most 
honest  men? 


Act  2  Heartbreak  House  77 

THE  BURGLAR.  That's  true,  sir.  But  I  couldn't 
set  up  as  a  locksmith  under  twenty  pounds. 

RANDALL.  Well,  you  can  easily  steal  twenty  pounds. 
You  will  find  it  in  the  nearest  bank. 

THE  BURGLAR  [horrified~].  Oh,  what  a  thing  for  a 
gentleman  to  put  into  the  head  of  a  poor  criminal 
scrambling  out  of  the  bottomless  pit  as  it  were!  Oh, 
shame  on  you,  sir!  Oh,  God  forgive  you!  {He  throws 
himself  into  the  big  chair  and  covers  his  face  as  if  in 
prayer  r\ 

LADY  UTTERWORD.    Really,  Randall! 

HECTOR.  It  seems  to  me  that  we  shall  have  to 
take  up  a  collection  for  this  inopportunely  contrite 
sinner. 

LADY  UTTERWORD.  But  twenty  pounds  is  ridicu- 
lous. 

THE  BURGLAR  [looMng  uj)  quickly^.  I  shall  have  to 
buy  a  lot  of  tools,  lady. 

LADY  UTTERWOOD.  Nonseusc:  you  have  your  bur- 
gling kit. 

THE  BURGLAR.  What's  a  jimmy  and  a  centrebit 
and  an  acetylene  welding  plant  and  a  bunch  of  skele- 
ton keys.?  I  shall  want  a  forge,  and  a  smithy,  and  a 
shop,  and  fittings.    I  can't  hardly  do  it  for  twenty. 

HECTOR.  My  worthy  friend,  we  haven't  got  twenty 
pounds. 

THE  BURGLAR  {now  master  of  the  situation^-  You 
can  raise  it  among  you,  can't  you.^^ 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  Givc  him  a  sovereign.  Hector, 
and  get  rid  of  him. 

HECTOR  {giving  him  a  pound}.  There!  Off  with 
you. 

THE  BURGLAR  [rising  and  taking  the  money  very 
ungratefully'].  I  won't  promise  nothing.  You  have 
more  on  you  than  a  quid:  all  the  lot  of  you,  I  mean. 

LADY  UTTERWORD  [vigorously'].    Oh,  let  us  prosecute 


78  Heartbreak  House  Act  2 

him  and  have  done  with  it.  I  have  a  conscience  too, 
I  hope;  and  I  do  not  feel  at  all  sure  that  we  have  any- 
right  to  let  him  go,  especially  if  he  is  going  to  be  greedy 
and  impertinent. 

THE  BURGLAR  \jquickly~\.  AH  right,  lady,  all  right. 
IVe  no  wish  to  be  anything  but  agreeable.  Good 
evening,  ladies  and  gentlemen;  and  thank  you  kindly. 

He  is  hurrying  out  when  he  is  confronted  in  the  door- 
way by  Captain  Shotover. 

CAPTAIN  SHOTOVER  [Jlxing  the  burglar  with  a  piercing 
regard'].    What's  this?    Are  there  two  of  you.? 

THE  BURGLAR  \_f ailing  on  his  knees  before  the  captain 
in  abject  terror].  Oh,  my  good  Lord,  what  have  I 
done.f*  Don't  tell  me  it's  your  house  I've  broken  into. 
Captain  Shotover. 

The  captain  seizes  him  by  the  collar:  drags  him  to  his 
feet:  and  leads  him  to  the  middle  of  the  group y  Hector 
falling  back  beside  his  wife  to  make  way  for  them, 

CAPTAIN  SHOTOVER  [turning  him  towards  Ellie].  Is 
that  your  daughter.'^    [He  releases  him.] 

THE  BURGLAR.  Well,  how  do  I  know.  Captain? 
You  know  the  sort  of  life  you  and  me  has  led.  Any 
young  lady  of  that  age  might  be  my  daughter  any- 
where in  the  wide  world,  as  you  might  say. 

CAPTAIN  SHOTOVER  [to  Mazzini].  You  are  not  Billy 
Dunn.  This  is  Billy  Dunn.  Why  have  you  imposed 
on  me? 

THE  BURGLAR  [indignantly  to  Mazzini],  Have  you 
been  giving  yourself  out  to  be  me?  You,  that  nigh 
blew  my  head  off!  Shooting  yourself,  in  a  manner  of 
speaking ! 

MAZZINI.  My  dear  Captain  Shotover,  ever  since  I 
came  into  this  house  I  have  done  hardly  anything  else 
but  assure  you  that  I  am  not  Mr  William  Dunn,  but 
Mazzini  Dunn,  a  very  different  person. 

THE  BURGLAR.     He   don't  belong  to   my  branch, 


Act  2  Heartbreak  House  79 

Captain.  There's  two  sets  in  the  family:  the  thinking 
Dunns  and  the  drinking  Dunns,  each  going  their  own 
ways.  I'm  a  drinking  Dunn:  he's  a  thinking  Dunn. 
But  that  didn't  give  him  any  right  to  shoot  me. 

CAPTAIN  SHOTOVER.  So  you'vc  tumcd  burglar, 
have  you? 

THE  BURGLAR.  No,  Captain:  I  wouldn't  disgrace 
our  old  sea  calling  by  such  a  thing.    I  am  no  burglar. 

LADY  UTTERWORD.  What  wcrc  you  doing  with  my 
diamonds.^ 

GUINNESS.  What  did  you  break  into  the  house  for 
if  you're  no  burglar? 

RANDALL.  Mistook  the  house  for  your  own  and 
came  in  by  the  wrong  window,  eh? 

THE  BURGLAR.  Well,  it's  uo  usc  my  telling  you  a 
lie:  I  can  take  in  most  captains,  but  not  Captain 
Shotover,  because  he  sold  himself  to  the  devil  in 
Zanzibar,  and  can  divine  water,  spot  gold,  explode  a 
cartridge  in  your  pocket  with  a  glance  of  his  eye,  and 
see  the  truth  hidden  in  the  heart  of  man.  But  I'm 
no  burglar. 

CAPTAIN  SHOTOVER.    Are  you  an  honest  man? 

THE  BURGLAR.  I  dou't  sct  up  to  be  better  than  my 
fellow-creatures,  and  never  did,  as  you  well  know, 
Captain.  But  what  I  do  is  innocent  and  pious.  I 
enquire  about  for  houses  where  the  right  sort  of  people 
live.  I  work  it  on  them  same  as  I  worked  it  here.  I 
break  into  the  house;  put  a  few  spoons  or  diamonds 
in  my  pocket;  make  a  noise;  get  caught;  and  take 
up  a  collection.  And  you  wouldn't  believe  how  hard 
it  is  to  get  caught  when  you're  actually  trying  to.  I 
have  knocked  over  all  the  chairs  in  a  room  without  a 
soul  paying  any  attention  to  me.  In  the  end  I  have 
had  to  walk  out  and  leave  the  job. 

RANDALL.  When  that  happens,  do  you  put  back 
the  spoons  and  diamonds? 


80  Heartbreak  House  Act  2 

THE  BURGLAR.  Well,  I  don't  fly  in  the  face  of  Provi- 
dence, if  that's  what  you  want  to  know. 

CAPTAIN  SHOTOVER.  Guinness,  you  remember  this 
man? 

GUINNESS.  I  should  think  I  do,  seeing  I  was  married 
to  him,  the  blackguard! 

HESIONE  \  exclaiming  (  Married  to  him ! 

LADY  UTTERWORD  J  together       \  Guinness !  ! 

THE  BURGLAR.  It  wasn't  legal.  I've  been  married 
to  no  end  of  women.    No  use  coming  that  over  me. 

CAPTAIN  SHOTOVER.  Take  him  to  the  forecastle 
\^he  flings  him  to  the  door  with  a  strength  beyond  his 
years']. 

GUINNESS.  I  suppose  you  mean  the  kitchen.  They 
won't  have  him  there.  Do  you  expect  servants  to 
keep  company  with  thieves  and  all  sorts  .'^ 

CAPTAIN  SHOTOVER.  Laud-thicves  and  water-thieves 
are  the  same  flesh  and  blood.  I'll  have  no  boatswain 
on  my  quarter-deck.    Off  with  you  both. 

THE  BURGLAR.    Ycs,  Captain.    [^He  goes  out  humbly. 2 

MAZZiNi.  Will  it  be  safe  to  have  him  in  the  house 
Uke  that? 

GUINNESS.  Why  didn't  you  shoot  him,  sir?  If 
I'd  known  who  he  was,  I'd  have  shot  him  myself. 
[^She  goes  out] 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  Do  sit  down,  everybody.  \^She 
sits  down  on  the  sofa]. 

They  all  move  except  Ellie.  Mazzini  resumes  his  seat. 
Randall  sits  down  in  the  window-seat  near  the  starboard 
door,  again  making  a  pendulum  of  his  poker,  and  study- 
ing it  as  Galileo  might  have  done.  Hector  sits  on  his 
lefty  in  the  middle.  Mangan,  forgotten,  sits  in  the 
port  corner.  Lady  Utterword  takes  the  big  chair.  Cap- 
tain Shotover  goes  into  the  pantry  in  deep  abstraction. 
They  all  look  after  him:  and  Lady  Utterword  coughs 
consciously. 


Act  2  Heartbreak  House  81 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  So  Billy  Diuin  was  poor  nurse's 
little  romance.    I  knew  there  had  been  somebody. 

RANDALL.  They  will  fight  their  battles  over  again 
and  enjoy  themselves  immensely. 

LADY  UTTERWORD  [irritably].  You  are  not  married; 
and  you  know  nothing  about  it,  Randall.  Hold  your 
tongue. 

RANDALL.    Tyrant ! 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  Well,  wc  havc  had  a  very  exciting 
evening.  Everything  will  be  an  anticlimax  after  it. 
We'd  better  all  go  to  bed. 

RANDALL.    Another  burglar  may  turn  up. 

MAzziNi.    Oh,  impossible!    I  hope  not. 

RANDALL.  Why  uot?  There  is  more  than  one 
burglar  in  England. 

MRS  HUSHABYE.    What  do  you  say,  Alf  ? 

MANGAN  [huffily].  Oh,  I  don't  matter.  I'm  for- 
gotten. The  burglar  has  put  my  nose  out  of  joint. 
Shove  me  into  a  corner  and  have  done  with  me. 

MRS  HUSHABYE  [jumping  up  mischievously,  and  going 
to  him].  Would  you  like  a  walk  on  the  heath,  Alfred? 
With  me? 

ELLiE.  Go,  Mr  Mangan.  It  will  do  you  good. 
Hesione  will  soothe  you. 

MRS  HUSHABYE  [slipping  her  arm  under  his  and 
pulling  him  upright].  Come,  Alfred.  There  is  a 
moon:  it's  like  the  night  in  Tristan  and  Isolde.  [She 
caresses  his  arm  and  draws  him  to  the  port  garden  door.] 

MANGAN  [writhing  hut  yielding].  How  you  can 
have  the  face  —  the  heart  —  [he  breaks  down  and  is 
heard  sobbing  as  she  takes  him  out]. 

LADY  UTTERWORD.  What  an  extraordinary  way  to 
behave!    What  is  the  matter  with  the  man? 

ELLIE  [in  a  strangely  calm  voice,  staring  into  an 
imaginary  distance].  His  heart  is  breaking:  that  is 
all.     [The  captain  appears  at  the  pantry  door,  listen- 


82  Heartbreak  House  Act  2 

ingJ}  It  is  a  curious  sensation:  the  sort  of  pain  that 
goes  mercifully  beyond  our  powers  of  feeling.  When 
your  heart  is  broken,  your  boats  are  burned:  nothing 
matters  any  more.  It  is  the  end  of  happiness  and 
the  beginning  of  peace. 

LADY  UTTERWORD  [^Suddenly  rising  in  a  rage,  to  the 
astonishment  of  the  rest'].    How  dare  you? 

HECTOR.    Good  heavens!    What's  the  matter.?^ 

RANDALL  [m  a  Warning  whisper].  Teh  —  tch  —  tch! 
Steady. 

ELLIE  [^surprised  and  haughty].  I  was  not  address- 
ing you  particularly,  Lady  Utterword.  And  I  am 
not  accustomed  to  being  asked  how  dare  I. 

LADY  UTTERWORD.  Of  coursc  uot.  Auyonc  can 
see  how  badly  you  have  been  brought  up. 

MAzziNi.    Oh,  I  hope  not,  Lady  Utterword.    Really! 

LADY  UTTERWORD.  I  kuow  Very  well  what  you 
meant.    The  impudence! 

ELLIE.    What  on  earth  do  you  mean.? 

CAPTAIN  SHOTOVER  [^advancing  to  the  table].  She 
means  that  her  heart  will  not  break.  She  has  been 
longing  all  her  life  for  someone  to  break  it.  At  last 
she  has  become  afraid  she  has  none  to  break. 

LADY  UTTERWORD  \^fiinging  herself  on  her  knees  and 
throioing  her  arms  round  him].  Papa,  don't  say  you 
think  I've  no  heart. 

CAPTAIN  SHOTOVER  [raising  her  vnth  grim  tenderriess]. 
If  you  had  no  heart  how  could  you  want  to  have  it 
broken,  child  .'^ 

HECTOR  [rising  with  a  bound].  Lady  Utterword, 
you  are  not  to  be  trusted.  You  have  made  a  scene 
[he  runs  out  into  the  garden  through  the  starboard  door]. 

LADY  UTTERWORD.  Oh!  Hcctor,  Hcctor!  [she  runs 
out  after  him]. 

RANDALL.  Only  nerves,  I  assure  you.  [He  rises 
and  follows  her,  waving  the  poker  in  his  agitation.] 


Act  2  Heartbreak  House  83 

Ariadne !  Ariadne !  For  God*s  sake,  be  careful.  You 
will  —  [_he  is  gone}. 

MAZziNi  [rising}.  How  distressing!  Can  I  do  any- 
thing, I  wonder? 

CAPTAIN  SHOTOVER  [promptly  taking  his  chair  and 
setting  to  work  at  the  drawing-board}.  No.  Go  to  bed. 
Good-night. 

MAZZINI  [beioildered}.    Oh!    Perhaps  you  are  right. 

ELLIE.    Good-night,  dearest.     [She  kisses  him.} 

MAZZINI.  Good-night,  love.  [He  makes  for  the  door, 
but  turns  aside  to  the  bookshelves.}  I'll  just  take  a 
book  [he  takes  one}.  Good-night.  [He  goes  out,  leav- 
ing Ellie  alone  unth  the  captain.} 

The  captain  is  intent  on  his  dravnng.  Ellie,  stand- 
ing sentry  over  his  chair,  contemplates  him  for  a  moment. 

ELLIE.  Does  nothing  ever  disturb  you,  Captain 
Shotover? 

CAPTAIN  SHOTOVER.  I'vc  stood  ou  the  bridge  for 
eighteen  hours  in  a  typhoon.  Life  here  is  stormier; 
but  I  can  stand  it. 

ELLIE.    Do  you  think  I  ought  to  marry  Mr  Mangan? 

CAPTAIN  SHOTOVER  [ncvcr  loohiug  up}.  One  rock  is 
as  good  as  another  to  be  wrecked  on. 

ELLIE.    I  am  not  in  love  with  him. 

CAPTAIN  SHOTOVER.    Who  Said  you  were? 

ELLIE.    You  are  not  surprised? 

CAPTAIN  SHOTOVER.    Surprised!    At  my  age! 

ELLIE.  It  seems  to  me  quite  fair.  He  wants  me 
for  one  thing:  I  want  him  for  another. 

CAPTAIN  SHOTOVER.     Money? 

ELLIE.     Yes. 

CAPTAIN  SHOTOVER.  Well,  One  turns  the  cheek: 
the  other  kisses  it.  One  provides  the  cash:  the  other 
spends  it. 

ELLIE.  Who  will  have  the  best  of  the  bargain,  I 
wonder? 


84  Heartbreak  House  Act  2 

CAPTAIN  SHOTOVER.  You.  Thcsc  fellows  live  in 
an  office  all  day.  You  will  have  to  put  up  with  him 
from  dinner  to  breakfast;  but  you  will  both  be  asleep 
most  of  that  time.  All  day  you  will  be  quit  of  him; 
and  you  will  be  shopping  with  his  money.  If  that  is 
too  much  for  you,  marry  a  seafaring  man:  you  will 
be  bothered  with  him  only  three  weeks  in  the  year, 
perhaps. 

ELLiE.    That  would  be  best  of  all,  I  suppose. 

CAPTAIN  SHOTOVER.  It's  a  daugcrous  thing  to  be 
married  right  up  to  the  hilt,  like  my  daughter's  hus- 
band. The  man  is  at  home  all  day,  like  a  damned  soul 
in  hell. 

ELLIE.    I  never  thought  of  that  before. 

CAPTAIN  SHOTOVER.  If  you'rc  marrying  for  busi- 
ness, you  can't  be  too  businesslike. 

ELLIE.  Why  do  women  always  want  other  women's 
husbands? 

CAPTAIN  SHOTOVER.  Why  do  horsc-thievcs  prefer 
a  horse  that  is  broken-in  to  one  that  is  wild.^^ 

ELLIE  [with  a  short  laugh~].  I  suppose  so.  What  a 
vile  world  it  is! 

CAPTAIN  SHOTOVER.  It  docsu't  conccm  me.  I*m 
nearly  out  of  it. 

ELLIE.    And  I'm  only  just  beginning. 

CAPTAIN  SHOTOVER.    Ycs;   SO  look  ahead. 

ELLIE.    Well,  I  think  I  am  being  very  prudent. 

CAPTAIN  SHOTOVER.  I  didn't  say  prudent.  I  said 
look  ahead. 

ELLIE.    What's  the  difference? 

CAPTAIN  SHOTOVER.  It's  prudcnt  to  gain  the  whole 
world  and  lose  your  own  soul.  But  don't  forget  that 
your  soul  sticks  to  you  if  you  stick  to  it;  but  the 
world  has  a  way  of  slipping  through  your  fingers. 

ELLIE  [wearily^  leaving  him  and  beginning  to  wander 
restlessly  about  the  room^^     I'm  sorry,  Captain  Shot- 


Act  2  Heartbreak  House  85 

over;  but  it's  no  use  talking  like  that  to  me.  Old- 
fashioned  people  are  no  use  to  me.  Old-fashioned 
people  think  you  can  have  a  soul  without  money. 
They  think  the  less  money  you  have,  the  more  soul 
you  have.  Young  people  nowadays  know  better.  A 
soul  is  a  very  expensive  thing  to  keep:  much  more  so 
than  a  motor  car. 

CAPTAIN  SHOTOVER.  Is  it?  How  much  does  your 
soul  eat.^ 

ELLiE.  Oh,  a  lot.  It  eats  music  and  pictures  and 
books  and  mountains  and  lakes  and  beautiful  things 
to  wear  and  nice  people  to  be  with.  In  this  country 
you  can't  have  them  without  lots  of  money:  that  is 
why  our  souls  are  so  horribly  starved. 

CAPTAIN  SHOTOVER.  Maugan's  soul  lives  on  pig's 
food. 

ELLIE.  Yes:  money  is  thrown  away  on  him.  I 
suppose  his  soul  was  starved  when  he  was  young. 
But  it  will  not  be  thrown  away  on  me.  It  is  just  be- 
cause I  want  to  save  my  soul  that  I  am  marrying  for 
money.    All  the  women  who  are  not  fools  do. 

CAPTAIN  SHOTOVER.  There  are  other  ways  of  getting 
money.    Why  don't  you  steal  it.? 

ELLIE.    Because  I  don't  want  to  go  to  prison. 

CAPTAIN  SHOTOVER.  Is  that  the  only  reason?  Are 
you  quite  sure  honesty  has  nothing  to  do  with  it? 

ELLIE.  Oh,  you  are  very  very  old-fashioned.  Cap- 
tain. Does  any  modern  girl  believe  that  the  legal 
and  illegal  ways  of  getting  money  are  the  honest  and 
dishonest  ways?  Mangan  robbed  my  father  and 
my  father's  friends.  I  should  rob  all  the  money  back 
from  Mangan  if  the  police  would  let  me.  As  they 
won't,  I  must  get  it  back  by  marrying  him. 

CAPTAIN  SHOTOVER.  I  Can't  arguc:  I'm  too  old: 
my  mind  is  made  up  and  finished.  All  I  can  tell  you 
is   that,    old-fashioned   or  new-fashioned,  if   you  sell 


86  Heartbreak  House  Act  2 

yourself,  you  deal  your  soul  a  blow  that  all  the  books 
and  pictures  and  concerts  and  scenery  in  the  world 
won't  heal  [_he  gets  up  suddenly  and  makes  for  the  pantry']. 

ELLIE  [running  after  him  and  seizing  him  by  the 
sleeve].  Then  why  did  you  sell  yourself  to  the  devil 
in  Zanzibar? 

CAPTAIN  SHOTOVER  [stopping,  startled].    What? 

ELLIE.  You  shall  not  run  away  before  you  answer. 
I  have  found  out  that  trick  of  yours.  If  you  sold 
yourself,  why  shouldn't  I? 

CAPTAIN  SHOTOVER.  I  had  to  deal  with  men  so 
degraded  that  they  wouldn't  obey  me  unless  I  swore 
at  them  and  kicked  them  and  beat  them  with  my 
fists.  Foolish  people  took  young  thieves  off  the  streets; 
flung  them  into  a  training  ship  where  they  were  taught 
to  fear  the  cane  instead  of  fearing  God;  and  thought 
they'd  made  men  and  sailors  of  them  by  private  sub- 
scription. I  tricked  these  thieves  into  believing  I'd 
sold  myself  to  the  devil.  It  saved  my  soul  from  the 
kicking  and  swearing  that  was  damning  me  by  inches. 

ELLIE  [releasing  him].  I  shall  pretend  to  sell  myself 
to  Boss  Mangan  to  save  my  soul  from  the  poverty 
that  is  damning  me  by  inches. 

CAPTAIN  SHOTOVER.  Richcs  wiU  damn  you  ten 
times  deeper.    Riches  won't  save  even  your  body. 

ELLIE.  Old-fashioned  again.  We  know  now  that 
the  soul  is  the  body,  and  the  body  the  soul.  They 
tell  us  they  are  different  because  they  want  to  per- 
suade us  that  we  can  keep  our  souls  if  we  let  them 
make  slaves  of  our  bodies.  I  am  afraid  you  are  no 
use  to  me,  Captain. 

CAPTAIN  SHOTOVER.  What  did  you  expect?  A 
Savior,  eh?  Are  you  old-fashioned  enough  to  beheve 
in  that? 

ELLIE.  No.  But  I  thought  you  were  very  wise, 
and  might  help  me.     Now  I  have  found  you  out. 


Act  2  Heartbreak  House  87 

You  pretend  to  be  busy,  and  think  of  fine  things  to 
say,  and  run  in  and  out  to  surprise  people  by  saying 
them,  and  get  away  before  they  can  answer  you. 

CAPTAIN  SHOTOVER.  It  confuscs  Hie  to  be  answered. 
It  discourages  me.  I  cannot  bear  men  and  women.  I 
have  to  run  away.    I  must  run  av/ay  now  [^he  tries  to}. 

ELLIE  [^again  seizing  his  arnf\.  You  shall  not  run 
away  from  me.  I  can  hypnotize  you.  You  are  the 
only  person  in  the  house  I  can  say  what  I  like  to.  I 
know  you  are  fond  of  me.  Sit  down.  {^She  draws  him 
to  the  sofa.2 

CAPTAIN  SHOTOVER  \_yielding'}.  Take  care:  I  am  in 
my  dotage.  Old  men  are  dangerous :  it  doesn't  matter 
to  them  what  is  going  to  happen  to  the  world. 

They  sit  side  by  side  on  the  sofa.  She  leans  affec- 
tionately against  him  with  her  head  on  his  shoulder  and 
her  eyes  half  closed. 

ELLIE  {dreamily~\.  I  should  have  thought  nothing 
else  mattered  to  old  men.  They  can't  be  very  in- 
terested in  what  is  going  to  happen  to  themselves. 

CAPTAIN  SHOTOVER.  A  mau's  interest  in  the  world 
is  only  the  overflow  from  his  interest  in  himself.  When 
you  are  a  child  your  vessel  is  not  yet  full;  so  you  care 
for  nothing  but  your  own  affairs.  When  you  grow 
up,  your  vessel  overflows;  and  you  are  a  politician, 
a  philosopher,  or  an  explorer  and  adventurer.  In 
old  age  the  vessel  dries  up:  there  is  no  overflow:  you 
are  a  child  again.  I  can  give  you  the  memories  of  my 
ancient  wisdom:  mere  scraps  and  leavings;  but  I 
no  longer  really  care  for  anything  but  my  own  little 
wants  and  hobbies.  I  sit  here  working  out  my  old 
ideas  as  a  means  of  destroying  my  fellow-creatures. 
I  see  my  daughters  and  their  men  living  foolish  lives 
of  romance  and  sentiment  and  snobbery.  I  see  you, 
the  younger  generation,  turning  from  their  romance 
and  sentiment  and  snobbery  to  money  and  comfort 


88  Heartbreak  House  Act  2 

and  hard  common  sense.  I  was  ten  times  happier 
on  the  bridge  in  the  typhoon,  or  frozen  into  Arctic 
ice  for  months  in  darkness,  than  you  or  they  have  ever 
been.  You  are  looking  for  a  rich  husband.  At  your 
age  I  looked  for  hardship,  danger,  horror,  and  death, 
that  I  might  feel  the  life  in  me  more  intensely.  I  did 
not  let  the  fear  of  death  govern  my  life;  and  my 
reward  was,  I  had  my  life.  You  are  going  to  let  the 
fear  of  poverty  govern  your  life;  and  your  reward 
will  be  that  you  will  eat,  but  you  will  not  live. 

ELLiE  [^sitting  up  impatiently'].  But  what  can  I  do? 
I  am  not  a  sea  captain:  I  can*t  stand  on  bridges  in 
typhoons,  or  go  slaughtering  seals  and  whales  in 
Greenland's  icy  mountains.  They  won't  let  women  be 
captains.    Do  you  want  me  to  be  a  stewardess? 

CAPTAIN  SHOTOVER.  There  are  worse  lives.  The 
stewardesses  could  come  ashore  if  they  liked;  but 
they  sail  and  sail  and  sail. 

ELLIE.  What  could  they  do  ashore  but  marry  for 
money?  I  don't  want  to  be  a  stewardess:  I  am  too 
bad  a  sailor.    Think  of  something  else  for  me. 

CAPTAIN  SHOTOVER.  I  can't  think  so  long  and  con- 
tinuously. I  am  too  old.  I  must  go  in  and  out.  [He 
tries  to  rise.] 

ELLIE  \_pulling  Mm  hack].  You  shall  not.  You  are 
happy  here,  aren't  you? 

CAPTAIN  SHOTOVER.  I  tell  you  it's  dangerous  to 
keep  me.    I  can't  keep  awake  and  alert. 

ELLIE.    What  do  you  run  away  for?    To  sleep? 

CAPTAIN  SHOTOVER.    No.    To  get  a  glass  of  rum. 

ELLIE  [frightfully  disillusioned].  Is  that  it?  How 
disgusting!  Do  you  like  being  drunk? 

CAPTAIN  SHOTOVER.  No:  I  dread  being  drunk 
more  than  anything  in  the  world.  To  be  drunk  means 
to  have  dreams;  to  go  soft;  to  be  easily  pleased  and 
deceived;   to  fall  into  the  clutches  of  women.    Drink 


Act  2  Heartbreak  House  89 

does  that  for  you  when  you  are  young.  But  when  you 
are  old:  very  very  old,  like  me,  the  dreams  come  by 
themselves.  You  don't  know  how  terrible  that  is: 
you  are  young:  you  sleep  at  night  only,  and  sleep 
soundly.  But  later  on  you  will  sleep  in  the  afternoon. 
Later  still  you  will  sleep  even  in  the  morning;  and  you 
will  awake  tired,  tired  of  life.  You  will  never  be 
free  from  dozing  and  dreams;  the  dreams  will  steal 
upon  your  work  every  ten  minutes  unless  you  can 
awaken  yourseK  with  rum.  I  drink  now  to  keep  sober; 
but  the  dreams  are  conquering:  rum  is  not  what  it 
was:  I  have  had  ten  glasses  since  you  came;  and  it 
might  be  so  much  water.  Go  get  me  another:  Guinness 
knows  where  it  is.  You  had  better  see  for  yourself 
the  horror  of  an  old  man  drinking. 

ELLiE.  You  shall  not  drink.  Dream.  I  like  you  to 
dream.  You  must  never  be  in  the  real  world  when  we 
talk  together. 

CAPTAIN  SHOTOVER.  I  am  too  Weary  to  resist,  or  too 
weak.  I  am  in  my  second  childhood.  I  do  not  see 
you  as  you  really  are.  I  can't  remember  what  I  really 
am.  I  feel  nothing  but  the  accursed  happiness  I  have 
dreaded  all  my  life  long:  the  happiness  that  comes  as 
life  goes,  the  happiness  of  yielding  and  dreaming  in- 
stead of  resisting  and  doing,  the  sweetness  of  the 
fruit  that  is  going  rotten. 

ELLIE.  You  dread  it  almost  as  much  as  I  used  to 
dread  losing  my  dreams  and  having  to  fight  and  do 
things.  But  that  is  all  over  for  me:  my  dreams  are 
dashed  to  pieces.  I  should  like  to  marry  a  very  old, 
very  rich  man.  I  should  like  to  marry  you.  I  had 
much  rather  marry  you  than  marry  Mangan.  Are 
you  very  rich? 

CAPTAIN  SHOTOVER.  No.  Living  from  hand  to 
mouth.  And  I  have  a  wife  somewhere  in  Jamaica:  a 
black  one.    My  first  wife.    Unless  she's  dead. 


90  Heartbreak  House  Act  2 

ELLIE.  What  a  pity!  I  feel  so  happy  with  you. 
[_She  takes  his  handy  almost  unconsciously y  and  pats 
it.^    I  thought  I  should  never  feel  happy  again. 

CAPTAIN  SHOTOVER.      Why? 

ELLIE.    Don't  you  know.^* 

CAPTAIN  SHOTOVER.     No. 

ELLIE.  Heartbreak.  I  fell  in  love  with  Hector,  and 
didn't  know  he  was  married. 

CAPTAIN  SHOTOVER.  Heartbreak.'^  Are  you  one  of 
those  who  are  so  sufficient  to  themselves  that  they 
are  only  happy  when  they  are  stripped  of  everything, 
even  of  hope.^^ 

ELLIE  [^gripping  the  hand].  It  seems  so;  for  I  feel 
now  as  if  there  was  nothing  I  could  not  do,  because 
I  want  nothing. 

CAPTAIN  SHOTOVER.  That's  the  only  real  strength. 
That's  genius.    That's  better  than  rum. 

ELLIE  [throwing  away  his  hand}.  Rum!  Why  did 
you  spoil  it? 

Hector  and  Randall  come  in  from  the  garden  through 
the  starboard  door. 

HECTOR.  I  beg  your  pardon.  We  did  not  know  there 
was  anyone  here. 

ELLIE  [rising].  That  means  that  you  want  to  tell 
Mr  Randall  the  story  about  the  tiger.  Come,  Cap- 
tain: I  want  to  talk  to  my  father;  and  you  had  better 
come  with  me. 

CAPTAIN  SHOTOVER  [rising].  Nonsense !  the  man  is 
in  bed. 

ELLIE.  Aha !  I've  caught  you.  My  real  father  has 
gone  to  bed;  but  the  father  you  gave  me  is  in  the 
kitchen.  You  knew  quite  well  all  along.  Come. 
[She  draws  him  out  into  the  garden  with  her  through  the 
port  door.] 

HECTOR.  That's  an  extraordinary  girl.  She  has 
the  Ancient  Mariner  on  a  string  like  a  Pekinese  dog. 


Act  2  Heartbreak  House  91 

RANDALL.  Now  that  they  have  gone,  shall  we  have  a 
friendly  chat? 

HECTOR.  You  are  in  what  is  supposed  to  be  my 
house.    I  am  at  your  disposal. 

Hector  sits  down  in  the  draughtsman's  chair,  turning 
it  to  face  Randall,  who  remains  standing,  leaning  at 
his  ease  against  the  carpenter's  bench, 

RANDALL.  I  take  it  that  we  may  be  quite  frank.  I 
mean  about  Lady  Utterword. 

HECTOR.  You  may.  I  have  nothing  to  be  frank 
about.    I  never  met  her  until  this  afternoon. 

RANDALL  [^Straightening  up].  What!  But  you  are 
her  sister's  husband. 

HECTOR.  Well,  if  you  come  to  that,  you  are  her 
husband's  brother. 

RANDALL.  But  you  sccm  to  be  on  intimate  terms 
with  her. 

HECTOR.    So  do  you. 

RANDALL.  Ycs:  but  I  am  on  intimate  terms  with 
her.    I  have  known  her  for  years. 

HECTOR.  It  took  her  years  to  get  to  the  same  point 
with  you  that  she  got  to  with  me  in  five  minutes,  it 
seems. 

RANDALL  [vcxcd].  Really,  Ariadne  is  the  limit  [he 
moves  away  huffishly  towards  the  vnndows']. 

HECTOR  [coolly'].  She  is,  as  I  remarked  to  Hesione, 
a  very  enterprising  woman. 

RANDALL  [returning,  much  troubled^.  You  see, 
Hushabye,  you  are  what  women  consider  a  good- 
looking  man. 

HECTOR.  I  cultivated  that  appearance  in  the  days 
of  my  vanity;  and  Hesione  insists  on  my  keeping  it 
up.  She  makes  me  wear  these  ridiculous  things  [in- 
dicating his  Arab  costume]  because  she  thinks  me  absurd 
in  evening  dress. 

RANDALL.    Still,  you  do  keep  it  up,  old  chap.    Now, 


92  Heartbreak  House  Act  2 

I  assure  you  I  have  not  an  atom  of  jealousy  in  my  dis- 
position — 

HECTOR.  The  question  would  seem  to  be  rather 
whether  your  brother  has  any  touch  of  that  sort. 

RANDALL.  What!  Hastings!  Oh,  don't  trouble 
about  Hastings.  He  has  the  gift  of  being  able  to 
work  sixteen  hours  a  day  at  the  dullest  detail,  and 
actually  likes  it.  That  gets  him  to  the  top  wherever 
he  goes.  As  long  as  Ariadne  takes  care  that  he  is  fed 
regularly,  he  is  only  too  thankful  to  anyone  who  will 
keep  her  in  good  humor  for  him. 

HECTOR.  And  as  she  has  all  the  Shotover  fascina- 
tion, there  is  plenty  of  competition  for  the  job,  eh.^* 

RANDALL  [^angrily}.  She  encourages  them.  Her 
conduct  is  perfectly  scandalous.  I  assure  you,  my 
dear  fellow,  I  haven't  an  atom  of  jealousy  in  my  com- 
position; but  she  makes  herself  the  talk  of  every 
place  she  goes  to  by  her  thoughtlessness.  It's  noth- 
ing more :  she  doesn't  really  care  for  the  men  she  keeps 
hanging  about  her;  but  how  is  the  world  to  know 
that?    It's  not  fair  to  Hastings.    It's  not  fair  to  me. 

HECTOR.  Her  theory  is  that  her  conduct  is  so  cor- 
rect — 

RANDALL.  Corrcct!  She  does  nothing  but  make 
scenes  from  morning  till  night.  You  be  careful,  old 
chap.  She  will  get  you  into  trouble:  that  is,  she 
would  if  she  really  cared  for  you. 

HECTOR.    Doesn't  she.'^ 

RANDALL.  Not  a  scrap.  She  may  want  your  scalp 
to  add  to  her  collection;  but  her  true  affection  has  been 
engaged  years  ago.     You  had  really  better  be  careful. 

HECTOR.    Do  you  suffer  much  from  this  jealousy.^ 

RANDALL.  Jcalousy!  I  jealous!  My  dear  fellow, 
haven't  I  told  you  that  there  is  not  an  atom  of  — 

HECTOR.  Yes.  And  Lady  Utterword  told  me  she 
never  made  scenes.     Well,  don't  waste  your  jealousy 


Act  2  Heartbreak  House  93 

on  my  moustache.  Never  waste  jealousy  on  a  real 
man:  it  is  the  imaginary  hero  that  supplants  us  all 
in  the  long  run.  Besides,  jealousy  does  not  belong 
to  your  easy  man-of-the-world  pose,  which  you  carry 
so  well  in  other  respects. 

RANDALL.  Really,  Hushabye,  I  think  a  man  may  be 
allowed  to  be  a  gentleman  without  being  accused  of 
posing. 

HECTOR.  It  is  a  pose  Uke  any  other.  In  this  house 
we  know  all  the  poses:  our  game  is  to  find  out  the 
man  under  the  pose.  The  man  under  your  pose  is 
apparently  EUie's  favorite,  Othello. 

RANDALL.  Somc  of  your  games  in  this  house  are 
damned  annoying,  let  me  tell  you. 

HECTOR.  Yes:  I  have  been  their  victim  for  many 
years.  I  used  to  writhe  under  them  at  first;  but  I 
became  accustomed  to  them.  At  last  I  learned  to 
play  them. 

RANDALL.  If  it*s  all  the  same  to  you  I  had  rather 
you  didn't  play  them  on  me.  You  evidently  don't 
quite  understand  my  character,  or  my  notions  of 
good  form. 

HECTOR.  Is  it  your  notion  of  good  form  to  give  away 
Lady  Utterword? 

RANDALL  [tt  cMldisMy  plaintive  note  breaJcing  into 
his  huff].  I  have  not  said  a  word  against  Lady  Utter- 
word.    This  is  just  the  conspiracy  over  again. 

HECTOR.    What  conspiracy? 

RANDALL.  You  kuow  vcry  well,  sir.  A  conspiracy 
to  make  me  out  to  be  pettish  and  jealous  and  childish 
and  everything  I  am  not.  Everyone  knows  I  am  just 
the  opposite. 

HECTOR  [rising'].  Something  in  the  air  of  the  house 
has  upset  you.  It  often  does  have  that  effect.  [He 
goes  to  the  garden  door  and  calls  Lady  Utterword  with 
commanding  emphasis.]    Ariadne! 


94  Heartbreak  House  Act  % 

LADY  UTTERWORD  \jit  some  distance].    Yes. 

RANDALL.  What  are  you  calling  her  for?  I  want 
to  speak  — 

LADY  UTTERWORD  {arriving  breathless].  Yes.  You 
really  are  a  terribly  commanding  person.  What's  the 
matter.'* 

HECTOR.  I  do  not  know  how  to  manage  your  friend 
Randall.    No  doubt  you  do. 

LADY  UTTERWORD.  Randall:  have  you  been  making 
yourself  ridiculous,  as  usual.'*  I  can  see  it  in  your 
face.    Really,  you  are  the  most  pettish  creature. 

RANDALL.  You  kuow  quitc  well,  Ariadne,  that  I 
have  not  an  ounce  of  pettishness  in  my  disposition. 
I  have  made  myself  perfectly  pleasant  here.  I  have 
remained  absolutely  cool  and  imperturbable  in  the 
face  of  a  burglar.  Imperturbability  is  almost  too 
strong  a  point  of  mine.  But  [^putting  his  foot  down 
with  a  stamp,  and  walking  angrily  up  and  down  the 
room]  I  insist  on  being  treated  with  a  certain  con- 
sideration. I  will  not  allow  Hushabye  to  take  liberties 
with  me.  I  will  not  stand  your  encouraging  people 
as  you  do. 

HECTOR.  The  man  has  a  rooted  delusion  that  he 
is  your  husband. 

LADY  UTTERWORD.  I  kuow.  He  is  jcalous.  As  if 
he  had  any  right  to  be!  He  compromises  me  every- 
where. He  makes  scenes  all  over  the  place.  Randall: 
I  will  not  allow  it.  I  simply  will  not  allow  it.  You 
had  no  right  to  discuss  me  with  Hector.  I  will  not 
be  discussed  by  men. 

HECTOR.  Be  reasonable,  Ariadne.  Your  fatal  gift 
of  beauty  forces  men  to  discuss  you. 

LADY  UTTERWORD.  Oh  indeed!  what  about  your 
fatal  gift  of  beauty? 

HECTOR.    How  can  I  help  it? 

LADY  UTTERWORD.     You  could  cut  off  your  mous- 


Act  2  Heartbreak  House  95 

tache:  I  can't  cut  off  my  nose.  I  get  nay  whole  life 
messed  up  with  people  falling  in  love  with  me.  And 
then  Randall  says  I  run  after  men. 

RANDALL.       I 

LADY  UTTER  WORD.  Ycs  you  do:  you  said  it  just 
now.  Why  can't  you  think  of  something  else  than 
women?  Napoleon  was  quite  right  when  he  said 
that  women  are  the  occupation  of  the  idle  man.  Well, 
if  ever  there  was  an  idle  man  on  earth,  his  name  is 
Randall  Utterword. 

RANDALL.     Ariad — 

LADY  UTTERWORD  [overwhelming  him  with  a  torrent 
of  words}'  Oh  yes  you  are:  it's  no  use  denying  it. 
What  have  you  ever  done.^^  What  good  are  you? 
You  are  as  much  trouble  in  the  house  as  a  child  of 
three.    You  couldn't  live  without  your  valet. 

RANDALL.     This  is  — 

LADY  UTTERWORD.  Laziucss!  You  are  laziness 
incarnate.  You  are  selfishness  itself.  You  are  the 
most  uninteresting  man  on  earth.  You  can't  even 
gossip  about  anything  but  yourself  and  your  grie- 
vances and  your  ailments  and  the  people  who  have 
offended  you.  [Turning  to  Hector.'}  Do  you  know 
what  they  call  him,  Hector? 

HECTOR    1  [speaking  (  Please  don't  tell  me. 

RANDALL  j  together}    \  I'll  not  stand  it  — 

LADY  UTTERWORD.  Randall  the  Rotter:  that  is  his 
name  in  good  society. 

RANDALL  [shouting}.  I'll  not  bear  it,  I  tell  you. 
Will  you  listen  to  me,  you  infernal  —  [he  chokes}. 

LADY  UTTERWORD.  Well:  go  ou.  What  were  you 
going  to  call  me?  An  infernal  what?  Which  un- 
pleasant animal  is  it  to  be  this  time? 

RANDALL  [foaming}.  There  is  no  animal  in  the 
world  so  hateful  as  a  woman  can  be.  You  are  a  madden- 
ing devil.     Hushabye,  you  will  not  believe  me  when 


96  Heartbreak  House  Act  2 

I  tell  you  that  I  have  loved  this  demon  all  my  life; 
but  God  knows  I  have  paid  for  it  [he  sits  down  in  the 
draughtsman's  chair,  weeping']. 

LADY  UTTERWORD  [standing  over  him  with  triumphant 
contempt].    Cry-baby! 

HECTOR  [gravely,  coming  to  him].  My  friend,  the 
Shotover  sisters  have  two  strange  powers  over  men. 
They  can  make  them  love;  and  they  can  make  them 
cry.  Thank  your  stars  that  you  are  not  married  to 
one  of  them. 

LADY  UTTERWORD  [haughtily].    And  pray,  Hector  — 

HECTOR  [suddenly  catching  her  round  the  shoulders: 
swinging  her  right  round  him  and  away  from  Randall: 
and  gripping  her  throat  vnth  the  other  hand].  Ariadne, 
if  you  attempt  to  start  on  me,  I'll  choke  you:  do  you 
hear?  The  cat-and-mouse  game  with  the  other  sex 
is  a  good  game;  but  I  can  play  your  head  off  at  it. 
[He  throws  her,  not  at  all  gently,  into  the  big  chair,  and 
proceeds,  less  fiercely  but  firmly.]  It  is  true  that  Na- 
poleon said  that  woman  is  the  occupation  of  the  idle 
man.  But  he  added  that  she  is  the  relaxation  of  the 
warrior.    Well,  /  am  the  warrior.    So  take  care. 

LADY  UTTERWORD  [uot  in  the  Icast  put  out,  and  rather 
pleased  by  his  violence].  My  dear  Hector,  I  have  only 
done  what  you  asked  me  to  do. 

HECTOR.    How  do  you  make  that  out,  pray? 

LADY  UTTERWORD.  You  Called  me  in  to  manage 
Randall,  didn't  you?  You  said  you  couldn't  manage 
him  yourself. 

HECTOR.  Well,  what  if  I  did?  I  did  not  ask  you  to 
drive  the  man  mad. 

LADY  UTTERWORD.  He  isu't  mad.  That's  the  way 
to  manage  him.  If  you  were  a  mother,  you'd  under- 
stand. 

HECTOR.    Mother!  What  are  you  up  to  now? 

LADY  UTTERWORD.     It's    quite   simple.     When   the 


Act  2  Heartbreak  House  97 

children  got  nerves  and  were  naughty,  I  smacked 
them  just  enough  to  give  them  a  good  cry  and  a  healthy 
nervous  shock.  They  went  to  sleep  and  were  quite 
good  afterwards.  Well,  I  can't  smack  Randall:  he 
is  too  big;  so  when  he  gets  nerves  and  is  naughty,  I 
just  rag  him  till  he  cries.  He  will  be  all  right  now. 
Look:  he  is  half  asleep  already  [which  is  quite  true]. 

RANDALL  [waJciug  up  indignantly].  I'm  not.  You 
are  most  cruel,  Ariadne.  [Sentimentally.]  But  I 
suppose  I  must  forgive  you,  as  usual  [he  checks  him- 
self in  the  act  of  y atoning]. 

LADY  UTTERWORD  [to  Hcctor].  Is  the  explanation 
satisfactory,  dread  warrior.? 

HECTOR.  Some  day  I  shall  kill  you,  if  you  go  too 
far.    I  thought  you  were  a  fool. 

LADY  UTTERWORD  [laughing].  Everybody  does,  at 
first.  But  I  am  not  such  a  fool  as  I  look.  [She  rises 
complacently.]  Now,  Randall,  go  to  bed.  You  will 
be  a  good  boy  in  the  morning. 

RANDALL  [only  vcry  faintly  rebellious].  I'll  go  to  bed 
when  I  Hke.    It  isn't  ten  yet. 

LADY  UTTERWORD.  It  is  loug  past  ten.  See  that 
he  goes  to  bed  at  once.  Hector.  [She  goes  into  the 
garden.] 

HECTOR.  Is  there  any  slavery  on  earth  viler  than 
this  slavery  of  men  to  women? 

RANDALL  [rising  resolutely].  I'll  not  speak  to  her  to- 
morrow. I'll  not  speak  to  her  for  another  week.  I'll 
give  her  such  a  lesson.  I'll  go  straight  to  bed  without 
bidding  her  good-night.  [He  makes  for  the  door  lead- 
ing to  the  hall.] 

HECTOR.  You  are  under  a  spell,  man.  Old  Shot- 
over  sold  himself  to  the  devil  in  Zanzibar.  The  devil 
gave  him  a  black  witch  for  a  wife;  and  these  two 
demon  daughters  are  their  mystical  progeny.  I  am 
tied  to  Hesione's  apron-string;   but  I'm  her  husband; 


98  Heartbreak  House  Act  2 

and  if  I  did  go  stark  staring  mad  about  her,  at  least 
we  became  man  and  wife.  But  why  should  you  let 
yourself  be  dragged  about  and  beaten  by  Ariadne 
as  a  toy  donkey  is  dragged  about  and  beaten  by  a 
child?    What  do  you  get  by  it?    Are  you  her  lover? 

KANDALL.  You  must  uot  misundcrstaud  me.  In  a 
higher  sense  —  in  a  Platonic  sense  — 

HECTOR.  Psha!  Platonic  sense!  She  makes  you 
her  servant;  and  when  pay-day  comes  round,  she 
bilks  you:  that  is  what  you  mean. 

RANDALL  \_}eebly~\.  Well,  if  I  don't  mind,  I  don't  see 
what  business  it  is  of  yours.  Besides,  I  tell  you  I  am 
going  to  punish  her.  You  shall  see :  /  know  how  to  deal 
with  women.  I'm  really  very  sleepy.  Say  good-night 
to  Mrs  Hushabye  for  me,  will  you,  like  a  good  chap. 
Good-night.    [He  hurries  out.~\ 

HECTOR.  Poor  wretch!  Oh  women!  women! 
women!  [He  lifts  his  fists  in  invocation  to  heaven. ~] 
Fall.    Fall  and  crush.    [He  goes  out  into  the  garden.'] 


ACT  III 

In  the  garden.  Hector,  as  he  comes  out  through  the  glass 
door  of  the  poop,  finds  Lady  Utterword  lying  voluptuously 
in  the  hammock  on  the  east  side  of  the  flagstaff,  in  the 
circle  of  light  cast  by  the  electric  arc,  which  is  like  a  moon 
in  its  opal  globe.  Beneath  the  head  of  the  hammock,  a 
campstooL  On  the  other  side  of  the  flagstaff,  on  the  long 
garden  seat.  Captain  Shotover  is  asleep,  with  Elite  beside 
him,  leaning  affectionately  against  him  on  his  right 
hand.  On  his  left  is  a  deck  chair.  Behind  them  in  the 
gloom,  Hesione  is  strolling  about  unth  Mangan.  It  is  a 
fine  still  night,  moonless. 

LADY  UTTERWORD.  What  a  lovely  night!  It  seems 
made  for  us. 

HECTOR.  The  night  takes  no  interest  in  us.  What 
are  we  to  the  night?  [He  sits  down  moodily  in  the  deck 
chair.'] 

ELLiE  [dreamily,  nestling  against  the  captain].  Its 
beauty  soaks  into  my  nerves.  In  the  night  there  is 
peace  for  the  old  and  hope  for  the  young. 

HECTOR.    Is  that  remark  your  own.^ 

ELLIE.  No.  Only  the  last  thing  the  captain  said 
before  he  went  to  sleep. 

CAPTAIN  SHOTOVER.    I'm  not  asleep. 

HECTOR.  Randall  is.  Also  Mr  Mazzini  Dunn. 
Mangan,  too,  probably. 

MANGAN.     No. 

HECTOR.  Oh,  you  are  there.  I  thought  Hesione 
would  have  sent  you  to  bed  by  this  time. 


100  Heartbreak  House  Act  3 

MRS  HUSHABYE  \_coming  to  the  hack  of  the  garden 
seat,  into  the  light,  with  Mangan].  I  think  I  shall. 
He  keeps  telling  me  he  has  a  presentiment  that  he 
is  going  to  die.  I  never  met  a  man  so  greedy  for 
sympathy. 

MANGAN  [^plaintively].  But  I  have  a  presentiment. 
I  really  have.    And  you  wouldn't  listen. 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  I  was  listening  for  something  else. 
There  was  a  sort  of  splendid  drumming  in  the  sky. 
Did  none  of  you  hear  it?  It  came  from  a  distance  and 
then  died  away. 

MANGAN.    I  tell  you  it  was  a  train. 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  And  /  tell  youy  AK,  there  is  no  train 
at  this  hour.    The  last  is  nine  forty-five. 

MANGAN.    But  a  goods  train. 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  Not  ou  oui  Uttlc  line.  They  tack  a 
truck  on  to  the  passenger  train.  What  can  it  have 
been,  Hector? 

HECTOR.  Heaven's  threatening  growl  of  disgust  at 
us  useless  futile  creatures.  [Fiercely.']  I  tell  you,  one 
of  two  things  must  happen.  Either  out  of  that  dark- 
ness some  new  creation  will  come  to  supplant  us  as 
we  have  supplanted  the  animals,  or  the  heavens  will 
fall  in  thunder  and  destroy  us. 

LADY  UTTERWORD  [in  a  cool  instriuHvc  manner,  wal- 
lowing comfortably  in  her  hammock].  We  have  not 
supplanted  the  animals.  Hector.  Why  do  you  ask 
heaven  to  destroy  this  house,  which  could  be  made 
quite  comfortable  if  Hesione  had  any  notion  of  how 
to  live?    Don't  you  know  what  is  wrong  with  it? 

HECTOR.  We  are  wrong  with  it.  There  is  no  sense 
in  us.  We  are  useless,  dangerous,  and  ought  to  be 
abolished. 

LADY  UTTERWORD.  Nonseusc!  Hastings  told  me 
the  very  first  day  he  came  here,  nearly  twenty-four 
years  ago,  what  is  wrong  with  the  house. 


Act  3  Heartbreak  House  101 

CAPTAIN  SHOTOVER.  What!  The  numskull  said 
there  was  something  wrong  with  my  house! 

LADY  UTTER  WORD.  I  Said  Hastings  said  it;  and  he 
is  not  in  the  least  a  numskull. 

CAPTAIN  SHOTOVER.    What's  wrong  with  my  house? 

LADY  UTTERWORD.  Just  what  is  wroug  with  a  ship, 
papa.    Wasn't  it  clever  of  Hastings  to  see  that? 

CAPTAIN  SHOTOVER.  The  mau's  a  fool.  There's 
nothing  wrong  with  a  ship. 

LADY  UTTERWORD.    Ycs,  there  is. 

MRS  HUSH AB YE.  But  what  is  it?  Don't  be  aggra- 
vating, Addy. 

LADY  UTTERWORD.     GuCSS. 

HECTOR.  Demons.  Daughters  of  the  witch  of  Zan- 
zibar.   Demons. 

LADY  UTTERWORD.  Not  a  bit.  I  assure  you,  aU  this 
house  needs  to  make  it  a  sensible,  healthy,  pleasant 
house,  with  good  appetites  and  sound  sleep  in  it,  is 
horses. 

MRS    HUSHABYE.    Horscs!    What  rubbish! 

LADY  UTTERWORD.  Ycs:  horses.  Why  have  we 
never  been  able  to  let  this  house?  Because  there  are 
no  proper  stables.  Go  anywhere  in  England  where 
there  are  natural,  wholesome,  contented,  and  really 
nice  English  people;  and  what  do  you  always  find? 
That  the  stables  are  the  real  centre  of  the  household; 
and  that  if  any  visitor  wants  to  play  the  piano  the 
whole  room  has  to  be  upset  before  it  can  be  opened, 
there  are  so  many  things  piled  on  it.  I  never  lived 
until  I  learned  to  ride;  and  I  shall  never  ride  really 
well  because  I  didn't  begin  as  a  child.  There  are  only 
two  classes  in  good  society  in  England:  the  equestrian 
classes  and  the  neurotic  classes.  It  isn't  mere  con- 
vention: everybody  can  see  that  the  people  who  hunt 
are  the  right  peoole  and  the  people  who  don't  are  the 
wrong  ones. 


102  Heartbreak  House  Act  3 

CAPTAIN  SHOTOVER.  There  is  some  truth  m  this. 
My  ship  made  a  man  of  me;  and  a  ship  is  the  horse  of 
the  sea. 

LADY  UTTER  WORD.  Exactly  how  Hastings  explained 
your  being  a  gentleman. 

CAPTAIN  SHOTOVER.  Not  bad  foF  a  numskull.  Bring 
the  man  here  with  you  next  time:  I  must  talk  to 
him. 

LADY  UTTERWORD.  Why  is  Randall  such  an  obvious 
rotter?  He  is  well  bred;  he  has  been  at  a  public  school 
and  a  university;  he  has  been  in  the  Foreign  Office;  he 
knows  the  best  people  and  has  lived  all  his  life  among 
them.  Why  is  he  so  unsatisfactory,  so  contemptible.'^ 
Why  can't  he  get  a  valet  to  stay  with  him  longer  than 
a  few  months?  Just  because  he  is  too  lazy  and  pleas- 
ure-loving to  hunt  and  shoot.  He  strums  the  piano, 
and  sketches,  and  runs  after  married  women,  and 
reads  literary  books  and  poems.  He  actually  plays 
the  flute;  but  I  never  let  him  "bring  it  into  my  house. 
If  he  would  only  —  [^she  is  interrupted  by  the  melan- 
choly strains  of  a  flute  coming  from  an  open  vnndow 
above.  She  raises  herself  indignantly  in  the  hammock^. 
Randall,  you  have  not  gone  to  bed.  Have  you  been 
listening?    [_The  flute  replies  pertly r\ 


How  vulgar!  Go  to  bed  instantly,  Randall:  how  dare 
you?  [^The  vnndow  is  slammed  down.  She  subsides. 1^ 
How  can  anyone  care  for  such  a  creature! 

MRS  HUSH AB YE.  Addy:  do  you  think  Ellie  ought  to 
marry  poor  Alfred  merely  for  his  money? 

MANGAN  [mu€h  alarmed].    What's  that?    Mrs  Hush- 


Act  3  Heartbreak  House  103 

abye,  are  my  affairs  to  be  discussed  like  this  before 
everybody? 

LADY  UTTERWORD.  I  don't  think  Randall  is  listen- 
ing now. 

MANGAN.    Everybody  is  listening.    It  isn't  right. 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  But  in  the  dark,  what  does  it 
matter?    Ellie  doesn't  mind.    Do  you,  Elhe? 

ELLiE.  Not  in  the  least.  What  is  your  opinion, 
Lady  Utterword?    You  have  so  much  good  sense. 

MANGAN.  But  it  isn't  right.  It  —  [^Mrs  Hushahye 
'puts  her  hand  on  his  mouth. ~\    Oh,  very  well. 

LADY  UTTERWORD.  How  much  moucy  have  you, 
Mr.  Mangan? 

MANGAN.    Really  —  No:  I  can't  stand  this. 

LADY  UTTERWORD.  Nonseusc,  Mr  Mangan!  It  all 
turns  on  your  income,  doesn't  it? 

MANGAN.  Well,  if  you  come  to  that,  how  much 
money  has  she? 

ELLIE.    None. 

LADY  UTTERWORD.  You  are  answered,  Mr  Mangan. 
And  now,  as  you  have  made  Miss  Dunn  throw  her 
cards  on  the  table,  you  cannot  refuse  to  show  your  own. 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  Comc,  AK!  out  with  it!  How 
much? 

MANGAN  [baited  out  of  all  prudence'].  Well,  if  you 
want  to  know,  I  have  no  money  and  never  had  any. 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  Alfred,  you  mustn't  tell  naughty 
stories. 

MANGAN.  I'm  not  telling  you  stories.  I'm  telling 
you  the  raw  truth. 

LADY  UTTERWORD.  Then  what  do  you  live  on,  Mr 
Mangan? 

MANGAN.  Travelling  expenses.  And  a  trifle  of  com- 
mission. 

CAPTAIN  SHOTOVER.  What  morc  have  any  of  us  but 
travelling  expenses  for  our  life's  journey? 


104  Heartbreak  House  Act  S 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  But  you  have  factories  and  capital 
and  things? 

MANGAN.  People  think  I  have.  People  think  I'm 
an  industrial  Napoleon.  That's  why  Miss  Ellie  wants 
to  marry  me.    But  I  tell  you  I  have  nothing. 

ELLIE.  Do  you  mean  that  the  factories  are  like 
Marcus's  tigers?    That  they  don't  exist? 

MANGAN.  They  exist  all  right  enough.  But  they're 
not  mine.  They  belong  to  syndicates  and  shareholders 
and  aU  sorts  of  lazy  good-for-nothing  capitalists.  I 
get  money  from  such  people  to  start  the  factories.  I 
find  people  like  Miss  Dunn's  father  to  work  them,  and 
keep  a  tight  hand  so  as  to  make  them  pay.  Of  course 
I  make  them  keep  me  going  pretty  well;  but  it's  a 
dog's  life;   and  I  don't  own  anything. 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  Alfred,  Alfred,  you  are  making  a 
poor  mouth  of  it  to  get  out  of  marrying  Ellie. 

MANGAN.  I'm  telling  the  truth  about  my  money  for 
the  first  time  in  my  life;  and  it's  the  first  time  my  word 
has  ever  been  doubted. 

LADY  UTTERWORD.  How  sad!  Why  don't  you  go  in 
for  pohtics,  Mr  Mangan? 

MANGAN.  Go  in  for  politics!  Where  have  you  been 
living?    I  am  in  politics. 

LADY  UTTERWORD.  I'm  surc  I  beg  your  pardon.  I 
never  heard  of  you. 

MANGAN.  Let  me  tell  you.  Lady  Utterword,  that 
the  Prime  Minister  of  this  country  asked  me  to  join 
the  Government  without  even  going  through  the  non- 
sense of  an  election,  as  the  dictator  of  a  great  public 
department. 

LADY  UTTERWORD.    As  a  Conservative  or  a  Liberal? 

MANGAN.  No  such  nonscnsc.  As  a  practical  busi- 
ness man.  {They  all  burst  out  laughing.^  What  are 
you  all  laughing  at? 

MRS  HUSHABYE.    Oh,  Alfred,  Alfred! 


Act  3  Heartbreak  House  105 

ELLIE.  You!  who  have  to  get  my  father  to  do 
everything  for  you! 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  You!  who  are  afraid  of  your  own 
workmen ! 

HECTOR.  You!  with  whom  three  women  have  been 
playing  cat  and  mouse  all  the  evening! 

LADY  UTTERWORD.  You  must  havc  givcu  an  im- 
mense sum  to  the  party  funds,  Mr  Mangan. 

MANGAN.  Not  a  penny  out  of  my  own  pocket.  The 
syndicate  found  the  money:  they  knew  how  useful  I 
should  be  to  them  in  the  Government. 

LADY  UTTERWORD.  This  is  most  interesting  and  un- 
expected, Mr  Mangan.  And  what  have  your  adminis- 
trative achievements  been,  so  far.? 

MANGAN.  Achievements?  Well,  I  don't  know  what 
you  call  achievements;  but  I've  jolly  well  put  a  stop 
to  the  games  of  the  other  fellows  in  the  other  depart- 
ments. Every  man  of  them  thought  he  was  going  to 
save  the  country  all  by  himseK,  and  do  me  out  of  the 
credit  and  out  of  my  chance  of  a  title.  I  took  good 
care  that  if  they  wouldn't  let  me  do  it  they  shouldn't 
do  it  themselves  either.  I  may  not  know  anything 
about  my  own  machinery;  but  I  know  how  to  stick  a 
ramrod  into  the  other  fellow's.  And  now  they  all  look 
the  biggest  fools  going. 

HECTOR.  And  in  heaven's  name,  what  do  you  look 
like? 

MANGAN.  I  look  like  the  fellow  that  was  too  clever 
for  all  the  others,  don't  I?  If  that  isn't  a  triumph  of 
practical  business,  what  is? 

HECTOR.    Is  this  England,  or  is  it  a  madhouse? 

LADY  UTTERWORD.  Do  you  cxpcct  to  savc  the  coun- 
try, Mr  Mangan? 

MANGAN.  Well,  who  clsc  wiU?  Will  your  Mr  Ran- 
dall save  it? 

LADY  UTTERWORD.  Randall  the  rotter!  Certainly  not. 


106  Heartbreak  House  Act  3 

MANGAN.  Will  your  brother-in-law  save  it  with  his 
moustache  and  his  fine  talk? 

HECTOR.    Yes,  if  they  will  let  me. 

MANGAN  ^sneering].    Ah!    Will  they  let  you? 

HECTOR.    No.    They  prefer  you. 

MANGAN.  Very  well  then,  as  you're  in  a  world  where 
I'm  appreciated  and  you're  not,  you'd  best  be  civil  to 
me,  hadn't  you?    Who  else  is  there  but  me? 

LADY  UTTERWORD.  There  is  Hastings.  Get  rid  of 
your  ridiculous  sham  democracy;  and  give  Hastings 
the  necessary  powers,  and  a  good  supply  of  bamboo  to 
bring  the  British  native  to  his  senses:  he  will  save  the 
country  with  the  greatest  ease. 

CAPTAIN  SHOTOVER.  It  had  better  be  lost.  Any  fool 
can  govern  with  a  stick  in  his  hand.  I  could  govern 
that  way.  It  is  not  God's  way.  The  man  is  a  num- 
skuU. 

LADY  UTTERWORD.  The  man  is  worth  all  of  you 
rolled  into  one.    What  do  you  say.  Miss  Dunn? 

ELLIE.  I  think  my  father  would  do  very  well  if 
people  did  not  put  upon  him  and  cheat  him  and  de- 
spise him  because  he  is  so  good. 

MANGAN  [^contemptuously']'  I  think  I  see  Mazzini 
Dunn  getting  into  parliament  or  pushing  his  way  into 
the  Government.  We've  not  come  to  that  yet,  thank 
God!    What  do  you  say,  Mrs  Hushaby e? 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  Oh,  I  Say  it  matters  very  little 
which  of  you  governs  the  country  so  long  as  we  govern 
you. 

HECTOR.    We?    Who  is  we,  pray? 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  The  devil's  granddaughters,  dear. 
The  lovely  women. 

HECTOR  [raising  his  hands  as  before].  Fall,  I  say, 
and  deliver  us  from  the  lures  of  Satan! 

ELLIE.  There  seems  to  be  nothing  real  in  the  world 
except  my  father  and  Shakespeare.    Marcus's  tigers  are 


Act  3  Heartbreak  House  107 

false;  Mr  Mangan's  millions  are  false;  there  is  noth- 
ing really  strong  and  true  about  Hesione  but  her  beau- 
tiful black  hair;  and  Lady  Utterword's  is  too  pretty 
to  be  real.  The  one  thing  that  was  left  to  me  was  the 
Captain's  seventh  degree  of  concentration;  and  that 
turns  out  to  be  — 

CAPTAIN  SHOTOVER.      Rum. 

LADY  UTTERWORD  [^plocidly'].  A  good  deal  of  my 
hair  is  quite  genuine.  The  Duchess  of  Dithering 
offered  me  fifty  guineas  for  this  [touching  her  forehead} 
under  the  impression  that  it  was  a  transformation; 
but  it  is  all  natural  except  the  color. 

MANGAN  [wildly].    Look  here:   I'm  going  to  take  off 
all  my  clothes  [he  begins  tearing  of  his  coat']. 


LADY   UTTERWORD. 
CAPTAIN  SHOTOVER. 
HECTOR. 
ELLIE. 


Mr  Mangan! 
What's  that? 
Ha!  ha!   Do.    Do. 
Please  don't. 


[in 
consterna- 
tion] 

MRS  HUSHABYE  [cotching  his  arm  and  stopping  him], 
Alfred,  for  shame!    Are  you  mad? 

MANGAN.  Shame!  What  shame  is  there  in  this 
house?  Let's  all  strip  stark  naked.  We  may  as  well 
do  the  thing  thoroughly  when  we're  about  it.  We've 
stripped  ourselves  morally  naked:  well,  let  us  strip 
ourselves  physically  naked  as  well,  and  see  how  we  like 
it.  I  tell  you  I  can't  bear  this.  I  was  brought  up  to 
be  respectable.  I  don't  mind  the  women  dyeing  their 
hair  and  the  men  drinking:  it's  human  nature.  But 
it's  not  human  nature  to  tell  everybody  about  it. 
Every  time  one  of  you  opens  your  mouth  I  go  like  this 
[he  cowers  as  if  to  avoid  a  missile]^  afraid  of  what  will 
come  next.  How  are  we  to  have  any  self-respect  if 
we  don't  keep  it  up  that  we're  better  than  we  really 
are? 

LADY  UTTERWORD.  I  quitc  Sympathize  with  you,  Mr 
Mangan.    I  have  been  through  it  all;  and  I  know  by 


108  Heartbreak  House  Act  3 

experience  that  men  and  women  are  delicate  plants 
and  must  be  cultivated  under  glass.  Our  family  habit 
of  throwing  stones  in  all  directions  and  letting  the  air 
in  is  not  only  unbearably  rude,  but  positively  danger- 
ous. Still,  there  is  no  use  catching  physical  colds  as 
well  as  moral  ones;   so  please  keep  your  clothes  on. 

MANGAN.  I'll  do  as  I  like:  not  what  you  tell  me. 
Am  I  a  child  or  a  grown  man?  I  won't  stand  this 
mothering  tyranny.  I'll  go  back  to  the  city,  where  I'm 
respected  and  made  much  of. 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  Goodbyc,  Alf.  Think  of  us  some- 
times in  the  city.    Think  of  Ellie's  youth! 

ELLIE.    Think  of  Hesione's  eyes  and  hair! 

CAPTAIN  SHOTOVER.  Think  of  this  garden  in  which 
you  are  not  a  dog  barking  to  keep  the  truth  out ! 

HECTOR.  Think  of  Lady  Utterword's  beauty!  her 
good  sense!   her  style! 

LADY  UTTER  WORD.  Flatterer.  Think,  Mr.  Mangan, 
whether  you  can  really  do  any  better  for  yourself  else- 
where:  that  is  the  essential  point,  isn't  it? 

MANGAN  [^surrendering].  AH  right:  all  right.  I'm 
done.  Have  it  your  own  way.  Only  let  me  alone.  I 
don't  know  whether  I'm  on  my  head  or  my  heels  when 
you  all  start  on  me  like  this.  I'll  stay.  I'll  marry  her. 
I'll  do  anything  for  a  quiet  life.  Are  you  satisfied 
now? 

ELLIE.  No.  I  never  really  intended  to  make  you 
marry  me,  Mr  Mangan.  Never  in  the  depths  of  my 
soul.  I  only  wanted  to  feel  my  strength:  to  know  that 
you  could  not  escape  if  I  chose  to  take  you. 

MANGAN  [indignantly'].  What !  Do  you  mean  to  say 
you  are  going  to  throw  me  over  after  my  acting  so 
handsome? 

LADY  UTTERWORD.  I  should  not  be  too  hasty.  Miss 
Dunn.  You  can  throw  Mr  Mangan  over  at  any  time 
up  to  the  last  moment.    Very  few  men  in  his  position 


Act  3 


Heartbreak  House 


109 


MRS  HUSHABYE. 


LADY  UTTERWORD. 


go  bankrupt.     You  can  live  very  comfortably  on  his 
reputation  for  immense  wealth. 

ELLiE.    I  cannot  commit  bigamy.  Lady  Utterword. 

Bigamy !      Whatever 

on   earth    are   you 

talking  about,  EUie  ? 

Bigamy !      What    do 

[^exclaim-        you     mean,     Miss 

ing  all     I      Dunn? 

MANGAN.  together]      Bigamy!       Do     you 

mean  to  say  you're 
married  already? 
HECTOR.  Bigamy!    ^     This    is 

some  enigma. 
ELLIE.     Only  haK  an  hour  ago  I  became  Captain 
Shotover's  white  wife. 

MRS  HUSHABYE.    EUie!    What  nonsense!    Where? 
ELLIE.     In  heaven,   where   all   true   marriages   are 
made. 

LADY  UTTERWORD.  Really,  Miss  Dunn!  Really,  papa! 
MANGAN.     He  told  me  /  was  too  old!    And  him  a 
mummy ! 

HECTOR  [^quoting  Shelley], 

"Their  altar  the  grassy  earth  outspread. 
And  their  priest  the  muttering  wind." 
ELLIE.     Yes:    I,  EUie  Dunn,  give  my  broken  heart 
and  my  strong  sound  soul  to  its  natural  captain,  my 
spiritual  husband  and  second  father. 

She  draws  the  captain's  arm  through  hers,  and  pats 
his  hand.     The  captain  remains  fast  asleep. 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  Oh,  that's  vcry  clever  of  you,  petti- 
kins.  Very  clever.  Alfred,  you  could  never  have 
lived  up  to  EUie.  You  must  be  content  with  a  little 
share  of  me. 

MANGAN  [^sniffing  and  wiping  his  eyes].  It  isn't  kind 
—  [his  emotion  chokes  him]. 


110  Heartbreak  House  Act  3 

LADY  UTTERWORD.  You  are  well  out  of  it,  Mr  Man- 
gan.  Miss  Dunn  is  the  most  conceited  young  woman 
I  have  met  since  I  came  back  to  England. 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  Oh,  Ellic  isu't  conccitcd.  Are  you, 
pettikins? 

ELLiE.    I  know  my  strength  now,  Hesione. 

MANGAN.    Brazen,  I  call  you.    Brazen. 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  Tut,  tut,  Alfred:  don't  be  rude. 
Don't  you  feel  how  lovely  this  marriage  night  is,  made 
in  heaven?  Aren't  you  happy,  you  and  Hector.?  Open 
your  eyes:  Addy  and  Ellie  look  beautiful  enough  to 
please  the  most  fastidious  man:  we  live  and  love  and 
have  not  a  care  in  the  world.  We  women  have  man- 
aged all  that  for  you.  Why  in  the  name  of  common 
sense  do  you  go  on  as  if  you  were  two  miserable 
wretches? 

CAPTAIN  SHOTOVER.  I  tell  you  happincss  is  no  good. 
You  can  be  happy  when  you  are  only  half  alive.  I  am 
happier  now  I  am  half  dead  than  ever  I  was  in  my 
prime.     But  there  is  no  blessing  on  my  happiness. 

ELLIE  [her  face  lighting  up].  Life  with  a  blessing! 
that  is  what  I  want.  Now  I  know  the  real  reason  why 
I  couldn't  marry  Mr  Mangan:  there  would  be  no 
blessing  on  our  marriage.  There  is  a  blessing  on  my 
broken  heart.  There  is  a  blessing  on  your  beauty, 
Hesione.  There  is  a  blessing  on  your  father's  spirit. 
Even  on  the  lies  of  Marcus  there  is  a  blessing;  but  on 
Mr  Mangan's  money  there  is  none. 

MANGAN.    I  don't  understand  a  word  of  that. 

ELLIE.  Neither  do  I.  But  I  know  it  means  some- 
thing. 

MANGAN.  Don't  say  there  was  any  diflficulty  about 
the  blessing.    I  was  ready  to  get  a  bishop  to  marry  us. 

MRS  HUSHABYE.    Isu't  he  a  fool,  pettikins? 

HECTOR  [fiercely].  Do  not  scorn  the  man.  We  are 
all  fools. 


Act  3  Heartbreak  House  111 

Mazziniy  in  pyjamas  and  a  richly  colored  silk  dressing- 
gown,  comes  from  the  house,  on  Lady  Utterword^s  side. 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  Oh!  here  comes  the  only  man  who 
ever  resisted  me.  What's  the  matter,  Mr  Dmm?  Is 
the  house  on  fire? 

MAZziNi.  Oh,  no:  nothing's  the  matter:  but  really 
it's  impossible  to  go  to  sleep  with  such  an  interesting 
conversation  going  on  under  one's  window,  and  on 
such  a  beautiful  night  too.  I  just  had  to  come  down 
and  join  you  all.    What  has  it  all  been  about .f^ 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  Oh,  wondcrful  things,  soldier  of 
freedom. 

HECTOR.  For  example,  Mangan,  as  a  practical 
business  man,  has  tried  to  undress  himself  and  has 
failed  ignominiously;  whilst  you,  as  an  ideahst,  have 
succeeded  brilliantly. 

MAZZINI.  I  hope  you  don't  mind  my  being  like  this, 
Mrs  Hushabye.    [Jle  sits  down  on  the  campstool7\ 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  On  the  contrary,  I  could  wish  you 
always  like  that. 

LADY  UTTER  WORD.  Your  daughter's  match  is  off,  Mr 
Dunn.  It  seems  that  Mr  Mangan,  whom  we  all  sup- 
posed to  be  a  man  of  property,  owns  absolutely  nothing. 

MAZZINI.  Well,  of  course  I  knew  that.  Lady  Utter- 
word.  But  if  people  believe  in  him  and  are  always 
giving  him  money,  whereas  they  don't  beheve  in  me 
and  never  give  me  any,  how  can  I  ask  poor  EUie  to 
depend  on  what  I  can  do  for  her? 

MANGAN.  Don't  you  run  away  with  this  idea  that  I 
have  nothing.    I  — 

HECTOR.  Oh,  don't  explain.  We  understand.  You 
have  a  couple  of  thousand  pounds  in  exchequer  bills, 
50,000  shares  worth  tenpence  a  dozen,  and  haK  a 
dozen  tabloids  of  cyanide  of  potassium  to  poison 
yourself  with  when  you  are  found  out.  That's  the 
reality  of  your  millions, 


112  Heartbreak  House  Act  3 

MAZZINI.  Oh  no,  no,  no.  He  is  quite  honest:  the 
businesses  are  genuine  and  perfectly  legal. 

HECTOR  [disgusted].  Yah!  Not  even  a  great 
swindler ! 

MANGAN.  So  you  think.  But  I've  been  too  many 
for  some  honest  men,  for  all  that. 

LADY  UTTERWORD.  There  is  no  pleasing  you,  Mr 
Mangan.  You  are  determined  to  be  neither  rich  nor 
poor,  honest  nor  dishonest. 

MANGAN.  There  you  go  again.  Ever  since  I  came 
into  this  silly  house  I  have  been  made  to  look  like  a 
fool,  though  I'm  as  good  a  man  in  this  house  as  in  the 
city. 

ELLiE  [micsically].  Yes:  this  silly  house,  this 
strangely  happy  house,  this  agonizing  house,  this  house 
without  foundations.    I  shall  call  it  Heartbreak  House. 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  Stop,  Ellic;  or  I  shall  howl  like  an 
animal. 

MANGAN  [breaks  into  a  low  snivelling']  !  !  ! 

MRS  HUSHABYE.    There!  you  have  set  Alfred  off. 

ELLIE.    I  like  him  best  when  he  is  howling. 

CAPTAIN  SHOTOVER.  Silcucc!  [Mangan  subsides  into 
silence.]    I  say,  let  the  heart  break  in  silence. 

HECTOR.    Do  you  accept  that  name  for  your  house? 

CAPTAIN  SHOTOVER.  It  is  Hot  my  house:  it  is  only 
my  kennel. 

HECTOR.  We  have  been  too  long  here.  We  do  not 
live  in  this  house:  we  haunt  it. 

LADY  UTTERWORD  [heart  torn].  It  is  dreadful  to 
think  how  you  have  been  here  all  these  years  while  I 
have  gone  round  the  world.  I  escaped  young;  but  it 
has  drawn  me  back.  It  wants  to  break  my  heart  too. 
But  it  shan't.  I  have  left  you  and  it  behind.  It  was 
silly  of  me  to  come  back.  I  felt  sentimental  about 
papa  and  Hesione  and  the  old  place.  I  felt  them  call- 
ing to  me. 


Act  3  Heartbreak  House  113 

MAZZiNi.  But  what  a  very  natural  and  kindly  and 
charming  human  feeling,  Lady  Utterword! 

LADY  UTTERWORD.  So  I  thought,  Mr  Dunu.  But  I 
know  now  that  it  was  only  the  last  of  my  influenza.  I 
found  that  I  was  not  remembered  and  not  wanted. 

CAPTAIN  SHOTOVER.  You  left  because  you  did  not 
want  us.  Was  there  no  heartbreak  in  that  for  your 
father?  You  tore  yourseK  up  by  the  roots;  and  the 
ground  healed  up  and  brought  forth  fresh  plants  and 
forgot  you.  What  right  had  you  to  come  back  and 
probe  old  wounds? 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  You  wcrc  a  complete  stranger  to 
me  at  first,  Addy;  but  now  I  feel  as  if  you  had  never 
been  away. 

LADY  UTTERWORD.  Thank  you,  Hesione;  but  the 
influenza  is  quite  cured.  The  place  may  be  Heartbreak 
House  to  you,  Miss  Dunn,  and  to  this  gentleman  from 
the  city  who  seems  to  have  so  little  self-control;  but 
to  me  it  is  only  a  very  ill-regulated  and  rather  untidy 
viUa  without  any  stables. 

HECTOR.    Inhabited  by  — ? 

ELLiE.  A  crazy  old  sea  captain  and  a  young  singer 
who  adores  him. 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  A  sluttish  female,  trying  to  stave 
off  a  double  chin  and  an  elderly  spread,  vainly  wooing 
a  born  soldier  of  freedom. 

MAZZiNi.    Oh,  really,  Mrs  Hushabye  — 

MANGAN.  A  member  of  His  Majesty's  Government 
that  everybody  sets  down  as  a  nincompoop:  don't  for- 
get him.  Lady  Utterword. 

LADY  UTTERWORD.  And  a  vcry  fascinating  gentle- 
man whose  chief  occupation  is  to  be  married  to  my 
sister. 

HECTOR.    All  heartbroken  imbeciles. 

MAZZINI.  Oh  no.  Surely,  if  I  may  say  so,  rather  a 
favorable  specimen  of  what  is  best  in  our  English  cul- 


114  Heartbreak  House  Act  3 

ture.  You  are  very  charming  people,  most  advanced, 
unprejudiced,  frank,  humane,  unconventional,  demo- 
cratic, free-thinking,  and  everything  that  is  delightful 
to  thoughtful  people. 

MRS  HUSHABYE.    You  do  US  proud,  Mazzini. 

MAZZiNi.  I  am  not  flattering,  really.  Where  else 
could  I  feel  perfectly  at  ease  in  my  pyjamas?  I  some- 
times dream  that  I  am  in  very  distinguished  society, 
and  suddenly  I  have  nothing  on  but  my  pyjamas! 
Sometimes  I  haven't  even  pyjamas.  And  I  always  feel 
overwhelmed  with  confusion.  But  here,  I  don't  mind 
in  the  least:  it  seems  quite  natural. 

LADY  UTTERWORD.  An  infallible  sign  that  you  are 
now  not  in  really  distinguished  society,  Mr  Dunn.  If 
you  were  in  my  house,  you  would  feel  embarrassed. 

MAZZINI.  I  shall  take  particular  care  to  keep  out  of 
your  house.  Lady  Utterword. 

LADY  UTTERWORD.  You  wiU  be  quite  wrong,  Mr 
Dunn.  I  should  make  you  very  comfortable;  and  you 
would  not  have  the  trouble  and  anxiety  of  wondering 
whether  you  should  wear  your  purple  and  gold  or  your 
green  and  crimson  dressing-gown  at  dinner.  You 
complicate  life  instead  of  simplifying  it  by  doing  these 
ridiculous  things. 

ELLiE.  Your  house  is  not  Heartbreak  House:  is  it. 
Lady  Utterword? 

HECTOR.  Yet  she  breaks  hearts,  easy  as  her  house 
is.  That  poor  devil  upstairs  with  his  flute  howls  when 
she  twists  his  heart,  just  as  Mangan  howls  when  my 
wife  twists  his. 

LADY  UTTERWORD.  That  is  bccausc  Randall  has 
nothing  to  do  but  have  his  heart  broken.  It  is  a  change 
from  having  his  head  shampooed.  Catch  anyone  break- 
ing Hastings'  heart! 

CApTAiN  SHOTOVER.    The  numskuU  wins,  after  all. 

laADY  UTTERWORD.    I  shall  go  back  to  my  numskull 


Act  3  Heartbreak  House  115 

with  the  greatest  satisfaction  when  I  am  tired  of  you 
all,  clever  as  you  are. 

MANGAN  [huffily'].    I  never  set  up  to  be  clever. 

LADY  UTTER  WORD.    I  forgot  you,  Mr  Maugan. 

MANGAN.    Well,  I  don't  see  that  quite,  either. 

LADY  UTTERWORD.  You  may  not  be  clever,  Mr  Man- 
gan;  but  you  are  successful. 

MANGAN.  But  I  don't  waut  to  be  regarded  merely  as 
a  successful  man.  I  have  an  imagination  like  anyone 
else.    I  have  a  presentiment  — 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  Oh,  you  are  impossible,  Alfred. 
Here  I  am  devoting  myself  to  you;  and  you  think  of 
nothing  but  your  ridiculous  presentiment.  You  bore 
me.  Come  and  talk  poetry  to  me  under  the  stars. 
[She  drags  him  away  into  the  darkness.] 

MANGAN  [tearfully y  as  he  disappears].  Yes:  it's  all 
very  well  to  make  fun  of  me;  but  if  you  only  knew  — 

HECTOR  [impatiently].    How  is  all  this  going  to  end? 

MAZziNi.  It  won't  end,  Mr  Hushabye.  Life  doesn't 
end:   it  goes  on. 

ELLiE.  Oh,  it  can't  go  on  forever.  I'm  always  ex- 
pecting something.  I  don't  know  what  it  is;  but  life 
must  come  to  a  point  sometime. 

LADY  UTTERWORD.  The  poiut  foF  SL  youug  woman  of 
your  age  is  a  baby. 

HECTOR.  Yes,  but,  damn  it,  I  have  the  same  feel- 
ing;  and  /  can't  have  a  baby. 

LADY  UTTERWORD.    By  deputy,  Hector. 

HECTOR.  But  I  have  children.  All  that  is  over  and 
done  with  for  me:  and  yet  I  too  feel  that  this  can't 
last.  We  sit  here  talking,  and  leave  everything  to 
Mangan  and  to  chance  and  to  the  devil.  Think  of  the 
powers  of  destruction  that  Mangan  and  his  mutual 
admiration  gang  wield!  It's  madness:  it's  like  giving 
a  torpedo  to  a  badly  brought  up  child  to  play  at  earth- 
quakes with. 


116  Heartbreak  House  Act  3 

MAZZiNi.  I  know.  I  used  often  to  think  about  that 
when  I  was  young. 

HECTOR.  Think!  What's  the  good  of  thinking  about 
it?    Why  didn't  you  do  something? 

MAZzmi.  But  I  did.  I  joined  societies  and  made 
speeches  and  wrote  pamphlets.  That  was  aU  I  could 
do.  But,  you  know,  though  the  people  in  the  societies 
thought  they  knew  more  than  Mangan,  most  of  them 
wouldn't  have  joined  if  they  had  known  as  much.  You 
see  they  had  never  had  any  money  to  handle  or  any 
men  to  manage.  Every  year  I  expected  a  revolution, 
or  some  frightful  smash-up:  it  seemed  impossible  that 
we  could  blunder  and  muddle  on  any  longer.  But 
nothing  happened,  except,  of  course,  the  usual  poverty 
and  crime  and  drink  that  we  are  used  to.  Nothing 
ever  does  happen.  It's  amazing  how  well  we  get  along, 
all  things  considered. 

LADY  UTTERWORD.  Perhaps  somebody  cleverer  than 
you  and  Mr  Mangan  was  at  work  all  the  time. 

MAZZINI.  Perhaps  so.  Though  I  was  brought  up 
not  to  believe  in  anything,  I  often  feel  that  there  is  a 
great  deal  to  be  said  for  the  theory  of  an  over-ruling 
Providence,  after  all. 

LADY  UTTERWORD.    Providcuce!    I  meant  Hastings. 

MAZZINI.    Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon.  Lady  Utterword. 

CAPTAIN  SHOTOVER.  Evcry  drunken  skipper  trusts 
to  Providence.  But  one  of  the  ways  of  Providence 
with  drunken  skippers  is  to  run  them  on  the  rocks. 

MAZZINI.  Very  true,  no  doubt,  at  sea.  But  in  poli- 
tics, I  assure  you,  they  only  run  into  jellyfish.  Noth- 
ing happens. 

CAPTAIN  SHOTOVER.  At  sca  nothing  happens  to  the 
sea.  Nothing  happens  to  the  sky.  The  sun  comes  up 
from  the  east  and  goes  down  to  the  west.  The  moon 
grows  from  a  sickle  to  an  arc  lamp,  and  comes  later  and 
later  until  she  is  lost  in  the  light  as  other  things  are 


Act  3  Heartbreak  House  117 

lost  in  the  darkness.  After  the  typhoon,  the  flying- 
fish  ghtter  in  the  sunshine  hke  birds.  It's  amazing  how 
they  get  along,  all  things  considered.  Nothing  happens, 
except  something  not  worth  mentioning. 

ELLiE.    What  is  that,  O  Captain,  O  my  captain? 

CAPTAIN  SHOTOVER  [^savogely'].  Nothing  but  the 
smash  of  the  drunken  skipper's  ship  on  the  rocks,  the 
splintering  of  her  rotten  timbers,  the  tearing  of  her 
rusty  plates,  the  drowning  of  the  crew  like  rats  in  a 
trap.  It 

EiiLiE.    Moral:  don't  take  rum. 

CAPTAIN  SHOTOVER  [vehemently}.  That  is  a  lie,  child. 
Let  a  man  drink  ten  barrels  of  rum  a  day,  he  is  not  a 
drunken  skipper  until  he  is  a  drifting  skipper.  Whilst 
he  can  lay  his  course  and  stand  on  his  bridge  and  steer 
it,  he  is  no  drunkard.  It  is  the  man  who  lies  drinking 
in  his  bunk  and  trusts  to  Providence  that  I  call  the 
drunken  skipper,  though  he  drank  nothing  but  the 
waters  of  the  River  Jordan. 

BLUE.  Splendid!  And  you  haven't  had  a  drop  for 
an  hour.  You  see  you  don't  need  it:  your  own  spirit 
is  not  dead. 

CAPTAIN  SHOTOVER.  Echocs:  nothing  but  echoes. 
The  last  shot  was  fired  years  ago. 

HECTOR.  And  this  ship  that  we  are  all  in?  This 
soul's  prison  we  call  England? 

CAPTAIN  SHOTOVER.  The  Captain  is  in  his  bunk, 
drinking  bottled  ditch-water;  and  the  crew  is  gam- 
bling in  the  forecastle.  She  will  strike  and  sink  and  split. 
Do  you  think  the  laws  of  God  will  be  suspended  in 
favor  of  England  because  you  were  bom  in  it? 

HECTOR.  Well,  I  don't  mean  to  be  drowned  like  a 
rat  in  a  trap.  I  still  have  the  will  to  live.  What  am 
I  to  do? 

CAPTAIN  SHOTOVER.  Do?  Nothing  simpler.  Learn 
your  business  as  an  EngUshman. 


118  Heartbreak  House  Act  3 

HECTOR.  And  what  may  my  business  as  an  English- 
man be,  pray? 

CAPTAIN  SHOTOVER.  Navigation.  Learn  it  and  Hve; 
or  leave  it  and  be  damned. 

ELLIE.    Quiet,  quiet:  you'll  tire  yourself. 

MAZziNi.  I  thought  all  that  once.  Captain;  but  I 
assure  you  nothing  will  happen. 

A  dull  distant  explosion  is  heard. 

HECTOR  {^starting  up'].    What  was  that? 

CAPTAIN  SHOTOVER.  Something  happening  [he  blows 
his  whistle].    Breakers  ahead! 

The  light  goes  out. 

HECTOR  [furiously].  Who  put  that  light  out?  Who 
dared  put  that  light  out? 

NURSE  GUINNESS  [running  in  from  the  house  to  the 
middle  of  the  esplanade].  I  did,  sir.  The  police  have 
telephoned  to  say  we'll  be  summoned  if  we  don't  put 
that  light  out:   it  can  be  seen  for  miles. 

HECTOR.  It  shall  be  seen  for  a  hundred  miles  [he 
dashes  into  the  house]. 

NURSE  GUINNESS.  The  Tcctory  is  nothing  but  a 
heap  of  bricks,  they  say.  Unless  we  can  give  the  rector 
a  bed  he  has  nowhere  to  lay  his  head  this  night. 

CAPTAIN  SHOTOVER.  The  ChuFch  is  on  the  rocks, 
breaking  up.  I  told  him  it  would  unless  it  headed  for 
God's  open  sea. 

NURSE  GUINNESS.  And  you  are  all  to  go  down  to 
the  cellars. 

CAPTAIN  SHOTOVER.  Go  there  yourself,  you  and  all 
the  crew.    Batten  down  the  hatches. 

NURSE  GUINNESS.  And  hide  beside  the  coward  I 
married!  I'll  go  on  the  roof  first.  [The  lamp  lights  up 
again.]    There!    Mr  Hushabye's  turned  it  on  again. 

THE  BURGLAR  [hurrying  in  and  appealing  to  Nurse 
Guinness].  Here:  where's  the  way  to  that  gravel  pit? 
The  boot-boy  says  there's  a  cave  in  the  gravel  pit. 


Act  3  Heartbreak  House  119 

Them  cellars  is  no  use.  Where's  the  gravel  pit.  Cap- 
tain? 

NURSE  GUINNESS.  Go  straight  on  past  the  flagstaff 
until  you  fall  into  it  and  break  your  dirty  neck.  \^She 
pushes  him  contemptuously  towards  the  flagstaff,  and  her- 
self goes  to  the  foot  of  the  hammock  and  waits  there,  as  it 
were  by  Ariadne^ s  cradle^ 

Another  and  louder  explosion  is  heard.  The  burglar 
stops  and  stands  trembling. 

ELLiE  [rising'].    That  was  nearer. 

CAPTAIN  SHOTOVER.  The  ucxt  ouc  will  get  us.  [He 
rises.]    Stand  by,  all  hands,  for  judgment. 

THE  BURGLAR.  Oh  my  Lordy  God!  [He  rushes 
away  frantically  past  the  flagstaff  into  the  gloom.] 

MRS  HUSH AB YE  [emerging  panting  from  the  darkness]. 
Who  was  that  running  away?  [She  comes  to  Ellie.] 
Did  you  hear  the  explosions?  And  the  sound  in  the 
sky:  it's  splendid:  it's  like  an  orchestra:  it's  like 
Beethoven. 

ELLIE.    By  thunder,  Hesione:  it  is  Beethoven. 

She  and  Hesione  throw  themselves  into  one  another^s 
arms  in  wild  excitement.     The  light  increases. 

MAZZiNi  [anxiously].    The  light  is  getting  brighter. 

NURSE  GUINNESS  [lookiug  up  at  the  house].  It's  Mr 
Hushabye  turning  on  all  the  lights  in  the  house  and 
tearing  down  the  curtains. 

RANDALL  [rusMug  in  in  his  pyjamas,  distractedly 
waving  a  flute].  Ariadne,  my  soul,  my  precious,  go 
down  to  the  cellars:  I  beg  and  implore  you,  go  down 
to  the  cellars! 

LADY  UTTER  WORD  [quite  composed  in  her  hammock]. 
The  governor's  wife  in  the  cellars  with  the  servants! 
Really,  Randall! 

RANDALL.    But  what  shall  I  do  if  you  are  killed? 

LADY  UTTERWORD.  You  will  probably  be  killed,  too, 
Randall.     Now  play  your  flute  to  show  that  you  are 


120  Heartbreak  House  Act  3 

not  afraid;  and  be  good.  Play  us  "Keep  the  home 
fires  burnmg." 

NURSE  GUINNESS  [jrrm/i/].  They'll  keep  the  home 
fires  burning  for  us:   them  up  there. 

RANDALL  [haning  tried  to  play].  My  lips  are  trem- 
bling.   I  can't  get  a  sound. 

MAZZiNi.    I  hope  poor  Mangan  is  safe. 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  He  is  hiding  in  the  cave  in  the 
gravel  pit. 

CAPTAIN  SHOTOVER.  My  dynamite  drew  him  there. 
It  is  the  hand  of  God. 

HECTOR  [returning  from  the  house  and  striding  across 
to  his  former  place].  There  is  not  half  hght  enough. 
We  should  be  blazing  to  the  skies. 

ELLiE  [tense  with  excitement'].  Set  fire  to  the  house, 
Marcus. 

MRS  HUSHABYE.    My  housc!    No. 

HECTOR.  I  thought  of  that;  but  it  would  not  be 
ready  in  time. 

CAPTAIN  SHOTOVER.  The  judgment  has  come. 
Courage  will  not  save  you;  but  it  will  show  that  your 
souls  are  still  live. 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  Sh-sh!  Listcu:  do  you  hear  it 
now?    It*s  magnificent. 

They  oil  turn  away  from  the  house  and  look  up,  listen- 
ing. 

HECTOR  [gravely].  Miss  Dunn,  you  can  do  no 
good  here.  We  of  this  house  are  only  moths  flying 
into  the  candle.  You  had  better  go  down  to  the 
cellar. 

ELLIE  [scornfully].    I  don't  think. 

MAZZINI,  EUie,  dear,  there  is  no  disgrace  in  going  to 
the  cellar.  An  officer  would  order  his  soldiers  to  take 
cover.  Mr  Hushabye  is  behaving  like  an  amateur. 
Mangan  and  the  burglar  are  acting  very  sensibly;  and 
it  is  they  who  will  survive. 


Act  3  Heartbreak  House  121 

ELLiE.  Let  them.  I  shall  behave  like  an  amateur. 
But  why  should  you  run  any  risk? 

MAZziNi.  Think  of  the  risk  those  poor  fellows  up 
there  are  running! 

NURSE  GUINNESS.  Think  of  themy  indeed,  the  mur- 
dering blackguards!    What  next.^^ 

A  terrific  explosion  shakes  the  earth.  They  reel  hack 
into  their  seats ^  or  clutch  the  nearest  support.  They  hear 
the  falling  of  the  shattered  glass  from  the  windows, 

MAZZINI.    Is  anyone  hurt.'^ 

HECTOR.    Where  did  it  fall? 

NURSE  GUINNESS  [in  hideous  triumph^.  Right  In  the 
gravel  pit:  I  seen  it.  Serve  un  right!  I  seen  it  [she 
runs  away  toacards  the  gravel  pit,  laughing  harshly~\, 

HECTOR.    One  husband  gone. 

CAPTAIN  SHOTOVER.  Thirty  pounds  of  good  dyna- 
mite wasted. 

MAZZINI.    Oh,  poor  Mangan! 

HECTOR.  Are  you  immortal  that  you  need  pity  him? 
Our  turn  next. 

They  wait  in  silence  and  intense  expectation,  Hesione 
and  Ellie  hold  each  other* s  hand  tight. 

A  distant  explosion  is  heard. 

MRS  HUSHABYE  [relaxing  her  grip~\.  Oh!  they  have 
passed  us. 

LADY  UTTERWORD.  The  danger  is  over,  Randall. 
Go  to  bed, 

CAPTAIN  SHOTOVER.  Tum  in,  all  hands.  The  ship  is 
safe.    [He  sits  down  and  goes  asleep. ~\ 

ELLIE  [disappointedly^.    Safe! 

HECTOR  [disgustedly^.  Yes,  safe.  And  how  damn- 
ably dull  the  world  has  become  again  suddenly!  [He 
sits  dovm.'] 

MAZZINI  [sitting  down}.  I  was  quite  wrong,  after  all. 
It  is  we  who  have  survived;  and  Mangan  and  the 
burglar  — 


122  Heartbreak  House  Act  3 

HECTOR.  —  the  two  burglars  — 

LADY  UTTERWORD.  — the  two  practical  men  of 
business  — 

MAZziNi.  —  both  gone.  And  the  poor  clergyman  will 
have  to  get  a  new  house. 

MRS  HUSHABYE.  But  what  a  glorious  experience!  I 
hope  they'll  come  again  tomorrow  night. 

ELLiE  [radiant  at  the  prospect^.    Oh,  I  hope  so. 

Randall  at  last  succeeds  in  keeping  the  home  fires  burn- 
ing on  his  flute. 


GREAT  CATHERINE 

**In  Catherine's  reign,  whom  Glory  still  adores" 

Byron. 

xxvn 


THE  AUTHOR'S  APOLOGY  FOR 
GREAT  CATHERINE 

Exception  has  been  taken  to  the  title  of  this  seem- 
ing tomfoolery  on  the  ground  that  the  Catherine  it 
represents  is  not  Great  Catherine,  but  the  Catherine 
whose  gallantries  provide  some  of  the  lightest  pages  of 
modern  history.  Great  Catherine,  it  is  said,  was  the 
Catherine  whose  diplomacy,  whose  campaigns  and  con- 
quests, whose  plans  of  Liberal  reform,  whose  corre- 
spondence with  Grimm  and  Voltaire  enabled  her  to  cut 
such  a  magnificent  figure  in  the  eighteenth  century. 
In  reply,  I  can  only  confess  that  Catherine's  diplomacy 
and  her  conquests  do  not  interest  me.  It  is  clear  to 
me  that  neither  she  nor  the  statesmen  with  whom  she 
played  this  mischievous  kind  of  political  chess  had  any 
notion  of  the  real  history  of  their  own  times,  or  of  the 
real  forces  that  were  moulding  Europe.  The  French 
Revolution,  which  made  such  short  work  of  Catherine's 
Voltairean  principles,  surprised  and  scandahzed  her  as 
much  as  it  surprised  and  scandalized  any  provincial 
governess  in  the  French  chateaux. 

The  main  difference  between  her  and  our  modern 
Liberal  Governments  was  that  whereas  she  talked  and 
wrote  quite  intelligently  about  Liberal  principles  be- 
fore she  was  frightened  into  making  such  tallang  and 
writing  a  flogging  matter,  our  Liberal  ministers  take 
the  name  of  Liberalism  in  vain  without  knowing  or 
caring  enough  about  its  meaning  even  to  talk  and 

125 


126  Great  Catherine 

scribble  about  it,  and  pass  their  flogging  Bills,  and  in- 
stitute their  prosecutions  for  sedition  and  blasphemy 
and  so  forth,  without  the  faintest  suspicion  that  such 
proceedings  need  any  apology  from  the  Liberal  point 
of  view. 

It  was  quite  easy  for  Patiomkin  to  humbug  Catherine 
as  to  the  condition  of  Russia  by  conducting  her  through 
sham  cities  run  up  for  the  occasion  by  scenic  artists; 
but  in  the  little  world  of  European  court  intrigue  and 
dynastic  diplomacy  which  was  the  only  world  she 
knew  she  was  more  than  a  match  for  him  and  for  all 
the  rest  of  her  contemporaries.  In  such  intrigue  and 
diplomacy,  however,  there  was  no  romance,  no  scien- 
tific political  interest,  nothing  that  a  sane  mind  can 
now  retain  even  if  it  can  be  persuaded  to  waste  time 
in  reading  it  up.  But  Catherine  as  a  woman,  with 
plenty  of  character  and  (as  we  should  say)  no  morals, 
still  fascinates  and  amuses  us  as  she  fascinated  and 
amused  her  contemporaries.  They  were  great  senti- 
mental comedians,  these  Peters,  Elizabeths,  and 
Catherines  who  played  their  Tsarships  as  eccentric 
character  parts,  and  produced  scene  after  scene  of 
furious  harlequinade  with  the  monarch  as  clown,  and 
of  tragic  relief  in  the  torture  chamber  with  the  mon- 
arch as  pantomime  demon  committing  real  atrocities, 
not  forgetting  the  indispensable  love  interest  on  an 
enormous  and  utterly  indecorous  scale.  Catherine 
kept  this  vast  Guignol  Theatre  open  for  nearly  half  a 
century,  not  as  a  Russian,  but  as  a  highly  domesticated 
German  lady  whose  household  routine  was  not  at  all  so 
unlike  that  of  Queen  Victoria  as  might  be  expected 
from  the  difference  in  their  notions  of  propriety  in 
sexual  relations. 

In  short,  if  Byron  leaves  you  with  an  impression 
that  he  said  very  little  about  Catherine,  and  that  Httle 
not  what  was  best  worth  saying,  I  beg  to  correct  your 


Great  Catherine  127 

impression  by  assuring  you  that  what  Byron  said  was 
all  there  really  is  to  say  that  is  worth  saying.  His 
Catherine  is  my  Catherine  and  everybody's  Catherine. 
The  young  man  who  gains  her  favor  is  a  Spanish  noble- 
man in  his  version.  I  have  made  him  an  English 
country  gentleman,  who  gets  out  of  his  rather  dan- 
gerous scrape  by  simplicity,  sincerity,  and  the  courage 
of  these  qualities.  By  this  I  have  given  some  offence 
to  the  many  Britons  who  see  themselves  as  heroes: 
what  they  mean  by  heroes  being  theatrical  snobs  of 
superhuman  pretensions  which,  though  quite  ground- 
less, are  admitted  with  awe  by  the  rest  of  the  human 
race.  They  say  I  think  an  Englishman  a  fool.  When 
I  do,  they  have  themselves  to  thank. 

I  must  not,  however,  pretend  that  historical  por- 
traiture was  the  motive  of  a  play  that  will  leave  the 
reader  as  ignorant  of  Russian  history  as  he  may  be 
now  before  he  has  turned  the  page.  Nor  is  the  sketch 
of  Catherine  complete  even  idiosyncratically,  leaving 
her  politics  out  of  the  question.  For  example,  she 
wrote  bushels  of  plays.  I  confess  I  have  not  yet  read 
any  of  them.  The  truth  is,  this  play  grew  out  of  the 
relations  which  inevitably  exist  in  the  theatre  between 
authors  and  actors.  If  the  actors  have  sometimes  to 
use  their  skill  as  the  author's  puppets  rather  than  in 
full  self-expression,  the  author  has  sometimes  to  use 
his  skill  as  the  actors'  tailor,  fitting  them  with  parts 
written  to  display  the  virtuosity  of  the  performer  rather 
than  to  solve  problems  of  life,  character,  or  history. 
Feats  of  this  kind  may  tickle  an  author's  technical 
vanity;  but  he  is  bound  on  such  occasions  to  admit 
that  the  performer  for  whom  he  writes  is  "the  onlie 
begetter"  of  his  work,  which  must  be  regarded  criti- 
cally as  an  addition  to  the  debt  dramatic  literature 
owes  to  the  art  of  acting  and  its  exponents.  Those 
who  have  seen  Miss  Gertrude  Kingston  play  the  part 


128  Great  Catherine 

of  Catherine  will  have  no  difficulty  in  believing  that  it 
was  her  talent  rather  than  mine  that  brought  the  play 
into  existence.  I  once  recommended  Miss  Kingston 
professionally  to  play  queens.  Now  in  the  modern 
drama  there  were  no  queens  for  her  to  play;  and  as  to 
the  older  literature  of  our  stage,  did  it  not  provoke  the 
veteran  actress  in  Sir  Arthur  Pinero's  Trelawny  of  the 
Wells  to  declare  that,  as  parts,  queens  are  not  worth 
a  tinker's  oath?  Miss  Kingston's  comment  on  my 
suggestion,  though  more  elegantly  worded,  was  to  the 
same  effect;  and  it  ended  in  my  having  to  make  good 
my  advice  by  writing  Great  Catherine.  History  pro- 
vided no  other  queen  capable  of  standing  up  to  our 
joint  talents. 

In  composing  such  bravura  pieces,  the  author  limits 
himself  only  by  the  range  of  the  virtuoso,  which  by 
definition  far  transcends  the  modesty  of  nature.  If 
my  Russians  seem  more  Muscovite  than  any  Russian, 
and  my  EngHsh  people  more  insular  than  any  Briton, 
I  will  not  plead,  as  I  honestly  might,  that  the  fiction 
has  yet  to  be  written  that  can  exaggerate  the  reality 
of  such  subjects;  that  the  apparently  outrageous 
Patiomkin  is  but  a  timidly  bowdlerized  ghost  of  the 
original;  and  that  Captain  Edstaston  is  no  more  than 
a  miniature  that  might  hang  appropriately  on  the  walls 
of  nineteen  out  of  twenty  English  coimtry  houses  to 
this  day.  An  artistic  presentment  must  not  condescend 
to  justify  itseK  by  a  comparison  with  crude  nature;  and 
I  prefer  to  admit  that  in  this  kind  my  dramatis  personce 
are,  as  they  should  be,  of  the  stage  stagey,  challenging 
the  actor  to  act  up  to  them  or  beyond  them,  if  he  can. 
The  more  heroic  the  overcharging,  the  better  for  the 
performance. 

In  dragging  the  reader  thus  for  a  moment  behind 
the  scenes,  I  am  departing  from  a  rule  which  I  have 
hitherto  imposed  on  myself  so  rigidly  that  I  never  per- 


Great  Catherine  129 

mit  myself,  even  in  a  stage  direction,  to  let  slip  a  word 
that  could  bludgeon  the  imagination  of  the  reader  by 
reminding  him  of  the  boards  and  the  footlights  and  the 
sky  borders  and  the  rest  of  the  theatrical  scaffolding 
for  which  nevertheless  I  have  to  plan  as  carefully  as 
if  I  were  the  head  carpenter  as  well  as  the  author.  But 
even  at  the  risk  of  talking  shop,  an  honest  playwright 
should  take  at  least  one  opportunity  of  acknowledg- 
ing that  his  art  is  not  only  limited  by  the  art  of  the 
actor,  but  often  stimulated  and  developed  by  it.  No 
sane  and  skilled  author  writes  plays  that  present  im- 
possibilities to  the  actor  or  to  the  stage  engineer.  If, 
as  occasionally  happens,  he  asks  them  to  do  things 
that  they  have  never  done  before  and  cannot  conceive 
as  presentable  or  possible  (as  Wagner  and  Thomas 
Hardy  have  done,  for  example),  it  is  always  found  that 
the  difficulties  are  not  really  insuperable,  the  author 
having  foreseen  unsuspected  possibiHties  both  in  the 
actor  and  in  the  audience,  whose  will-to-make-believe 
can  perform  the  quaintest  miracles.  Thus  may  authors 
advance  the  arts  of  acting  and  of  staging  plays.  But 
the  actor  also  may  enlarge  the  scope  of  the  drama  by 
displaying  powers  not  previously  discovered  by  the 
author.  If  the  best  available  actors  are  only  Horatios, 
the  authors  will  have  to  leave  Hamlet  out,  and  be  con- 
tent with  Horatios  for  heroes.  Some  of  the  difference 
between  Shakespeare's  Orlandos  and  Bassanios  and 
Bertrams  and  his  Hamlets  and  Macbeths  must  have 
been  due  not  only  to  his  development  as  a  dramatic 
poet,  but  to  the  development  of  Burbage  as  an  actor. 
Playwrights  do  not  write  for  ideal  actors  when  their 
livehhood  is  at  stake:  if  they  did,  they  would  write 
parts  for  heroes  with  twenty  arms  like  an  Indian  god. 
Indeed  the  actor  often  influences  the  author  too  much; 
for  I  can  remember  a  time  (I  am  not  implying  that  it  is 
yet  wholly  past)  when  the  art  of  writing  a  fashionable 


130  Great  Catherine 

play  had  become  very  largely  the  art  of  writing  it 
"round"  the  personalities  of  a  group  of  fashionable 
performers  of  whom  Burbage  would  certainly  have 
said  that  their  parts  needed  no  acting.  Everything 
has  its  abuse  as  well  as  its  use. 

It  is  also  to  be  considered  that  great  plays  live  longer 
than  great  actors,  though  little  plays  do  not  live  nearly 
so  long  as  the  worst  of  their  exponents.  The  conse- 
quence is  that  the  great  actor,  instead  of  putting  pres- 
sure on  contemporary  authors  to  supply  him  with 
heroic  parts,  falls  back  on  the  Shakespearean  reper- 
tory, and  takes  what  he  needs  from  a  dead  hand.  In 
the  nineteenth  century,  the  careers  of  Kean,  Macready, 
Barry  Sullivan,  and  Irving,  ought  to  have  produced  a 
group  of  heroic  plays  comparable  in  intensity  to  those 
of  Aeschylus,  Sophocles,  and  Euripides;  but  nothing  of 
the  kind  happened:  these  actors  played  the  works  of 
dead  authors,  or,  very  occasionally,  of  live  poets  who 
were  hardly  regular  professional  playwrights.  Sheridan 
Knowles,  Bulwer  Lytton,  Wills,  and  Tennyson  pro- 
duced a  few  glaringly  artificial  high  horses  for  the  great 
actors  of  their  time;  but  the  playwrights  proper,  who 
really  kept  the  theatre  going,  and  were  kept  going  by 
the  theatre,  did  not  cater  for  the  great  actors:  they 
could  not  afford  to  compete  with  a  bard  who  was  not 
for  an  age  but  for  all  time,  and  who  had,  moreover, 
the  overwhelming  attraction  for  the  actor-managers  of 
not  charging  author's  fees.  The  result  was  that  the 
playwrights  and  the  great  actors  ceased  to  think  of 
themselves  as  having  any  concern  with  one  another: 
Tom  Robertson,  Ibsen,  Pinero,  and  Barrie  might  as 
well  have  belonged  to  a  different  solar  system  as  far 
as  Irving  was  concerned;  and  the  same  was  true  of 
their  respective  predecessors. 

Thus  was  established  an  evil  tradition;  but  I  at 
least  can  plead  that  it  does  not  always  hold  good.    If 


Great  Catherine  131 

Forbes  Robertson  had  not  been  there  to  play  Caesar, 
I  should  not  have  written  Caesar  and  Cleopatra.  If 
Ellen  Terry  had  never  been  born,  Captain  Brassbound's 
conversion  would  never  have  been  effected.  The 
DeviFs  Disciple,  with  which  I  won  my  cordon  bleu  in 
America  as  a  potboiler,  would  have  had  a  different 
sort  of  hero  if  Richard  Mansfield  had  been  a  different 
sort  of  actor,  though  the  actual  commission  to  write  it 
came  from  an  English  actor,  William  Terriss,  who  was 
assassinated  before  he  recovered  from  the  dismay  into 
which  the  result  of  his  rash  proposal  threw  him.  For  it 
must  be  said  that  the  actor  or  actress  who  inspires  or 
commissions  a  play  as  often  as  not  regards  it  as  a  Fran- 
kenstein's monster,  and  will  none  of  it.  That  does  not 
make  him  or  her  any  the  less  parental  in  the  fecundity 
of  the  playwright. 

To  an  author  who  has  any  feeling  of  his  business 
there  is  a  keen  and  whimsical  joy  in  divining  and  re- 
vealing a  side  of  an  actor's  genius  overlooked  before, 
and  unsuspected  even  by  the  actor  himself.  When  I 
snatched  Mr  Louis  Calvert  from  Shakespeare,  and 
made  him  wear  a  frock  coat  and  silk  hat  on  the  stage 
for  perhaps  the  first  time  in  his  life,  I  do  not  think  he 
expected  in  the  least  that  his  performance  would  en- 
able me  to  boast  of  his  Tom  Broadbent  as  a  genuine 
stage  classic.  Mrs  Patrick  Campbell  was  famous  be- 
fore I  wrote  for  her,  but  not  for  playing  illiterate  cock- 
ney flower-maidens.  And  in  the  case  which  is 
provoking  me  to  aU  these  impertinences,  I  am  quite 
sure  that  Miss  Gertrude  Kingston,  who  first  made  her 
reputation  as  an  impersonator  of  the  most  delightfully 
feather-headed  and  inconsequent  ingenues,  thought  me 
more  than  usually  mad  when  I  persuaded  her  to  play 
the  Helen  of  Euripides,  and  then  launched  her  on  a 
queenly  career  as  Catherine  of  Russia. 

It  is  not  the  whole  truth  that  if  we  take  care  of  the 


132  Great  Catherine 

actors  the  plays  will  take  care  of  themselves;  nor  is  it 
any  truer  that  if  we  take  care  of  the  plays  the  actors 
will  take  care  of  themselves.  There  is  both  give  and 
take  in  the  business.  I  have  seen  plays  written  for 
actors  that  made  me  exclaim,  "How  oft  the  sight  of 
means  to  do  ill  deeds  makes  deeds  ill  done!"  But  Bur- 
bage  may  have  flourished  the  prompt  copy  of  Hamlet 
under  Shakespeare's  nose  at  the  tenth  rehearsal  and 
cried,  "How  oft  the  sight  of  means  to  do  great  deeds 
makes  playwrights  great!'*  I  say  the  tenth  because  I 
am  convinced  that  at  the  first  he  denounced  his  part 
as  a  rotten  one;  thought  the  ghost's  speech  ridiculously 
long;  and  wanted  to  play  the  king.  Anyhow,  whether 
he  had  the  wit  to  utter  it  or  not,  the  boast  would  have 
been  a  vaUd  one.  The  best  conclusion  is  that  every 
actor  should  say,  "If  I  create  the  hero  in  myself,  God 
will  send  an  author  to  write  his  part."  For  in  the  long 
run  the  actors  wiU  get  the  authors,  and  the  authors 
the  actors,  they  deserve. 

JWr  Great  Catherine  was  performed  for  the  first  time  at 
the  Vaudeville  Theatre  in  London  on  the  ISth  November 
1913,  with  Gertrude  Kingston  as  Catherine,  Miriam 
Lewes  as  Varinlca,  Dorothy  Massingham  as  Claire,  Nor- 
man McKinnell  as  Patiomkin,  Edmond  Br  eon  as  Edstas- 
ton,  Annie  Hill  as  the  Princess  Dashkoff,  and  Eugene 
Mayeur  and  F.  Cooke  Beresford  as  Naryshkin  and  the 
Sergeant 


GREAT  CATHERINE 

THE  FIRST  SCENE 

1776.  Patiomkin  in  his  bureau  in  the  Winter  Palace, 
St.  Petersburgh.  Huge  'palatial  apartment:  style,  Russia 
in  the  eighteenth  century  imitating  the  Versailles  du  Roi 
Soleil.    Extravagant  luxury.    Also  dirt  and  disorder. 

Patiomkin,  gigantic  in  stature  and  build,  his  face 
marred  by  the  loss  of  one  eye  and  a  marked  squint  in  the 
other,  sits  at  the  end  of  a  table  littered  with  papers  and 
the  remains  of  three  or  four  successive  breakfasts.  He  has 
supplies  of  coffee  and  brandy  at  hand  sufficient  for  a  party 
of  ten.  His  coat,  encrusted  with  diamonds,  is  on  the  flow. 
It  has  fallen  off  a  chair  placed  near  the  other  end  of  the 
table  for  the  convenience  of  visitors.  His  court  sword, 
with  its  attachments,  is  on  the  chair.  His  three-cornered 
hat,  also  bejewelled,  is  on  the  table.  He  himself  is  half 
dressed  in  an  unfastened  shirt  and  an  immense  dressing- 
gown,  once  gorgeous,  now  food-splashed  and  dirty,  as  it 
serves  him  for  towel,  handkerchief,  duster,  and  every  other 
use  to  which  a  textile  fabric  can  be  put  by  a  slovenly  man. 
It  does  not  conceal  his  huge  hairy  chest,  nor  his  half- 
buttoned  knee  breeches,  nor  his  legs.  These  are  partly 
clad  in  silk  stockings,  which  he  occasionally  hitches  up 
to  his  knees,  and  presently  shakes  down  to  his  shins,  by 
his  restless  movement.  His  feet  are  thrust  into  enormous 
slippers,  worth,  with  their  crust  of  jewels,  several  thousand 
roubles  apiece. 

Superficially  Patiomkin  is  a  violent,  brutal  barbarian^ 
133 


134  Great  Catherine  Scene  1 

an  upstart  despot  of  the  most  intolerable  and  dangerous 
type,  ugly,  lazy,  and  disgusting  in  his  personal  habits. 
Yet  ambassadors  report  him  the  ablest  man  in  Russia, 
and  the  one  who  can  do  most  with  the  still  abler  Empress 
Catherine  II,  who  is  not  a  Russian  but  a  German,  by  no 
means  barbarous  or  intemperate  in  her  personal  habits. 
She  not  only  disputes  with  Frederick  the  Great  the  reputa- 
tion of  being  the  cleverest  monarch  in  Europe,  but  may 
even  put  in  a  vdry  plausible  claim  to  be  the  cleverest  and 
most  attractive  individual  alive.  Now  she  not  only  toler- 
ates Patiomkin  long  after  she  has  got  over  her  first  roman- 
tic attachment  to  him,  but  esteems  him  highly  as  a  coun- 
sellor and  a  good  friend.  His  love  letters  are  among  the 
best  on  record.  He  has  a  wild  sense  of  humor,  which  en- 
ables him  to  laugh  at  himself  as  well  as  at  everybody  else. 
In  the  eyes  of  the  English  visitor  now  about  to  be  admitted 
to  his  presence  he  may  be  an  outrageous  ruffian.  In  fact 
he  actually  is  an  outrageous  ruffian,  in  no  matter  whose 
eyes;  but  the  visitor  will  find  out,  as  everyone  else  sooner 
or  later  finds  out,  that  he  is  a  man  to  be  reckoned  with  even 
by  those  who  are  not  intimidated  by  his  temper,  bodily 
strength,  and  exalted  rank. 

A  pretty  young  lady,  Varinka,  his  favorite  niece,  is 
lounging  on  an  ottoman  between  his  end  of  the  table  and 
the  door,  very  sulky  and  dissatisfied,  perhaps  because  he 
is  preoccupied  with  his  papers  and  his  brandy  bottle,  and 
she  can  see  nothing  of  him  but  his  broad  back. 

There  is  a  screen  behind  the  ottoman. 

An  old  soldier,  a  Cossack  sergeant,  enters. 

THE  SERGEANT  {jsoftly  to  the  lady,  holding  the  door 
handle].  Little  darling  honey,  is  his  Highness  the 
prince  very  busy? 

VARINKA.  His  Highness  the  prince  is  very  busy.  He 
is  singing  out  of  tune;  he  is  biting  his  nails;  he  is 
scratching  his  head;    he   is  hitching   up   his   untidy 


Scene  1  Great  Catherine  135 

stockings;  he  is  making  himself  disgusting  and  odious 
to  everybody;  and  he  is  pretending  to  read  state  papers 
that  he  does  not  understand  because  he  is  too  lazy  and 
selfish  to  talk  and  be  companionable. 

PATIOMKIN  [^growls;  then  luipes  his  nose  with  his  dress- 
ing-gowri]  \  ! 

VARiNKA.  Pig.  Ugh!  \_She  curls  herself  up  with  a 
shiver  of  disgust  and  retires  from  the  conversation. 2 

THE  SERGEANT  [^stealing  across  to  the  coat,  and  picking 
it  up  to  replace  it  on  the  back  of  the  chair'}.  Little  Father, 
the  English  captain,  so  highly  recommended  to  you  by 
old  Fritz  of  Prussia,  by  the  English  ambassador,  and 
by  Monsieur  Voltaire  (whom  [crossing  himself}  niay 
God  in  his  infinite  mercy  damn  eternally!),  is  in  the 
antechamber  and  desires  audience. 

PATIOMKIN  [deliberately}.  To  hell  with  the  English 
captain;  and  to  hell  with  old  Fritz  of  Prussia;  and  to 
hell  with  the  English  ambassador;  and  to  hell  with 
Monsieur  Voltaire;   and  to  hell  with  you  too! 

THE  SERGEANT.  Havc  mercy  on  me.  Little  Father. 
Your  head  is  bad  this  morning.  You  drink  too  much 
French  brandy  and  too  little  good  Russian  kvass. 

PATIOMKIN  [with  sudden  fury}.  Why  are  visitors  of 
consequence  announced  by  a  sergeant.?  [Springing  at 
him  and  seizing  him  by  the  throat.}  What  do  you  mean 
by  this,  you  hound?  Do  you  want  five  thousand  blows 
of  the  stick?    Where  is  General  Volkonsky? 

THE  SERGEANT  [on  Ms  knees}.  Little  Father,  you 
kicked  his  Highness  downstairs. 

PATIOMKIN  [flinging  him  dovm  and  kicking  him}. 
You  lie,  you  dog.    You  lie. 

THE  SERGEANT.  Little  Father,  life  is  hard  for  the 
poor.  If  you  say  it  is  a  lie,  it  is  a  lie.  He  fell  down- 
stairs. I  picked  him  up;  and  he  kicked  me.  They 
all  kick  me  when  you  kick  them.  God  knows  that  is 
not  just.  Little  Father! 


136  Great  Catherine  Scene  1 

PATIOMKIN  [laughs  ogreishly;  then  returns  to  his  place 
at  the  tahhy  chuckling']  !  !  ! 

VARiNiLA.  Savage!  Boot!  It  is  a  disgrace.  No 
wonder  the  French  sneer  at  us  as  barbarians. 

THE  SERGEANT  {who  has  Crept  round  the  table  to  the 
screen^  and  insinuated  himself  between  Patiomkin's  back 
and  Varinka].  Do  you  think  the  Prince  will  see  the 
captain,  little  darling? 

PATIOMKIN.  He  will  not  see  any  captain.  Go  to  the 
devil! 

THE  SERGEANT.  Bc  uicrciful.  Little  Father.  God 
knows  it  is  your  duty  to  see  him!  [To  Varinka.]  In- 
tercede for  him  and  for  me,  beautiful  little  darling.  He 
has  given  me  a  rouble. 

PATIOMKIN.  Oh,  send  him  in,  send  him  in;  and  stop 
pestering  me.    Am  I  never  to  have  a  moment's  peace? 

The  Sergeant  salutes  joyfully  and  hurries  out,  divining 
that  Patiomkin  has  intended  to  see  the  English  captain  all 
along y  and  has  played  this  comedy  of  fury  and  exhausted 
impatience  to  conceal  his  interest  in  the  visitor, 

VARiNKA.  Have  you  no  shame?  You  refuse  to  see 
the  most  exalted  persons.  You  kick  princes  and  gen- 
erals downstairs.  And  then  you  see  an  English  cap- 
tain merely  because  he  has  given  a  rouble  to  that 
common  soldier.    It  is  scandalous. 

PATIOMKIN.  Darling  beloved,  I  am  drunk;  but  I 
know  what  I  am  doing.  I  wish  to  stand  well  with  the 
Enghsh. 

VARINKA.  And  you  think  you  will  impress  an  Eng- 
lishman by  receiving  him  as  you  are  now,  half  drunk? 

PATIOMKIN  {jravely'].  It  is  true:  the  English  de- 
spise men  who  cannot  drink.  I  must  make  myself 
wholly  drunk  [he  takes  a  huge  draught  of  brandy], 

VARINKA.      Sot! 

The  Sergeant  returns  ushering  a  handsome  strongly 
built  young  English  officer  in  the  uniform  of  a  Light 


Scene  1  Great  Catherine  137 

Dragoon.  He  is  evidently  on  fairly  good  terms  with  him- 
self ,  and  very  sure  of  his  social  position.  He  crosses  the 
room  to  the  end  of  the  table  opposite  Patiomkin's,  and 
awaits  the  civilities  of  that  statesman  with  confidence. 
The  Sergeant  remains  prudently  at  the  door. 

THE  SERGEANT  [jpaternally~].  Little  Father,  this  is 
the  EngUsh  captain,  so  well  recommended  to  her  sacred 
Majesty  the  Empress.  God  knows,  he  needs  your 
countenance  and  protec — [lie  vanishes  precipitately, 
seeing  that  Patiomkin  is  about  to  throw  a  bottle  at  him. 
The  Captain  contemplates  these  preliminaries  with  as- 
tonishment, and  with  some  displeasure,  which  is  not 
allayed  when  Patiomkin,  hardly  condescending  to  look  at 
his  visitor,  of  whom  he  nevertheless  takes  stock  with  the 
comer  of  his  one  eye,  says  gruffly~\.    Well? 

EDSTASTON.  My  name  is  Edstaston:  Captain  Eds- 
taston  of  the  Light  Dragoons.  I  have  the  honor  to 
present  to  your  Highness  this  letter  from  the  British 
ambassador,  which  will  give  you  all  necessary  particu- 
lars.    [He  hands  Patiomkin  the  letter.'] 

PATIOMKIN  [tearing  it  open  and  glancing  at  it  for  about 
a  second].    What  do  you  want? 

EDSTASTON.  The  letter  will  explain  to  your  High- 
ness who  I  am. 

PATIOMKIN.  I  don't  want  to  know  who  you  are. 
What  do  you  want? 

EDSTASTON.  An  audicncc  of  the  Empress.  [Patiom- 
kin contemptuously  throws  the  letter  aside.  Edstaston 
adds  hotly.]    Also  some  civiUty,  if  you  please. 

PATIOMKIN  [with  derision].    Ho! 

VARiNKA.  My  uncle  is  receiving  you  with  unusual 
civility,  Captain.  He  has  just  kicked  a  general  down- 
stairs. 

EDSTASTON.    A  Russian  general,  madam? 

VARINKA.    Of  course. 

EDSTASTON.     I  must  allow  myself  to  say,  madam, 


138  Great  Catherine  Scene  1 

that  your  uncle  had  better  not  attempt  to  kick  an 
Enghsh  oflScer  downstairs. 

PATiOMKiN.  You  want  me  to  kick  you  upstairs,  eh? 
You  want  an  audience  of  the  Empress. 

EDSTASTON.  I  havc  Said  nothing  about  kicking,  sir. 
If  it  comes  to  that,  my  boots  shall  speak  for  me.  Her 
Majesty  has  signified  a  desire  to  have  news  of  the  re- 
bellion in  America.  I  have  served  against  the  rebels; 
and  I  am  instructed  to  place  myself  at  the  disposal  of 
her  Majesty,  and  to  describe  the  events  of  the  war  to 
her  as  an  eye-witness,  in  a  discreet  and  agreeable 
manner. 

PATIOMKIN.  Psha!  I  know.  You  think  if  she  once 
sets  eyes  on  your  face  and  your  uniform  your  fortune 
is  made.  You  think  that  if  she  could  stand  a  man  like 
me,  with  only  one  eye,  and  a  cross  eye  at  that,  she 
must  fall  down  at  your  feet  at  first  sight,  eh? 

EDSTASTON  [shocked  and  indignant].  I  think  noth- 
ing of  the  sort;  and  I'll  trouble  you  not  to  repeat  it. 
If  I  were  a  Russian  subject  and  you  made  such  a  boast 
about  my  queen,  I'd  strike  you  across  the  face  with 
my  sword.  [^Patiomkin,  with  a  yell  of  fury,  rushes  at 
him.~}  Hands  off,  you  swine!  \^As  Patiomkin,  towering 
aver  hirriy  attempts  to  seize  him  by  the  throaty  EdstastoUy 
who  is  a  bit  of  a  wrestler,  adroitly  backheels  him.  He 
falls,  amazed,  on  his  back^ 

\AicmKX  [rushing  out].  Help!  Call  the  guard!  The 
Englishman  is  murdering  my  uncle!    Help!    Help! 

The  guard  and  the  Sergeant  rush  in.  Edstaston  draws 
a  pair  of  small  pistols  from  his  boots,  and  points  one  at 
the  Sergeant  and  the  other  at  Patiomkin,  who  is  sitting  on 
the  floor,  somewhat  sobered.    The  soldiers  stand  irresolute. 

EDSTASTON.  Stand  off.  [_To  Patiomkin.]  Order 
them  off,  if  you  don't  want  a  bullet  through  your  silly 
head. 

THE  SERGEANT.    Little  Father,  tell  us  what  to  do. 


Scene  1  Great  Catherine  139 

Our  lives  are  yours;  but  God  knows  you  are  not  fit  to 
die. 

PATiOMKiN  [^absurdly  self-possessed].    Get  out. 

THE  SERGEANT.    Little  Father  — 

PATIOMKIN  [roaring'].  Get  out.  Get  out,  all  of  you. 
[They  vnthdraw,  much  relieved  at  their  escape  from  the 
pistol.  Patiomkin  attempts  to  rise,  and  rolls  over.]  Here ! 
help  me  up,  will  you?  Don't  you  see  that  I'm  drunk 
and  can't  get  up? 

EDSTASTON  [suspiciously].  You  want  to  get  hold  of 
me. 

PATIOMKIN  [squatting  resignedly  against  the  chair  on 
which  his  clothes  hang].  Very  well,  then:  I  shall  stay 
where  I  am,  because  I'm  drunk  and  you're  afraid  of 
me. 

EDSTASTON.    I'm  uot  afraid  of  you,  damn  you! 

PATIOMKIN  [ecstatically].  Darling,  your  lips  are  the 
gates  of  truth.  Now  listen  to  me.  [He  marks  of  the 
items  of  his  statement  with  ridiculous  stiff  gestures  of  his 
head  and  arms,  imitating  a  puppet.]  You  are  Captain 
Whatshisname;  and  your  uncle  is  the  Earl  of  What- 
dyecallum;  and  your  father  is  Bishop  of  Thingummy- 
bob;  and  you  are  a  young  man  of  the  highest 
spr-promise  (I  told  you  I  was  drunk),  educated  at 
Cambridge,  and  got  your  step  as  captain  in  the  field  at 
the  GLORIOUS  battle  of  Bunker's  Hill.  Invalided 
home  from  America  at  the  request  of  Aunt  Fanny, 
Lady-in- Waiting  to  the  Queen.    All  right,  eh? 

EDSTASTON.    How  do  you  know  all  this? 

PATIOMKIN  [crowing  fantastically].  In  er  lerrer,  dar- 
ling, darhng,  darling,  darling.    Lerrer  you  showed  me. 

EDSTASTON.    But  you  didn't  read  it. 

PATIOMKIN  [flapping  his  fingers  at  him  grotesquely]. 
Only  one  eye,  darling.  Cross  eye.  Sees  everything. 
Read  lerrer  inceince-istastaneously.  Kindly  give  me 
vinegar  borle.    Green  borle.    On'y  to  sober  me.    Too 


140  Great  Catherine  Scene  1 

drunk  to  speak  porply.  If  you  would  be  so  kind,  dar- 
ling. Green  borle.  \_Edstaston,  still  suspicious^  shakes 
his  head  and  keeps  his  pistols  ready.'}  Reach  it  myself. 
{He  reaches  behind  him  up  to  the  tahley  and  snatches  at 
the  green  bottle,  from  which  he  takes  a  copious  draught. 
Its  effect  is  appalling.  His  wry  faces  and  agonized  belch- 
ing s  are  so  heartrending  that  they  almost  upset  Edstaston. 
When  the  victim  at  last  staggers  to  his  feet,  he  is  a  pale 
fragile  nobleman,  aged  and  quite  sober,  extremely  digni- 
fied in  manner  and  address,  though  shaken  by  his  recent 
convulsions.'}  Young  man,  it  is  not  better  to  be  drunk 
than  sober;  but  it  is  happier.  Goodness  is  not  happi- 
ness. That  is  an  epigram.  But  I  have  overdone  this. 
I  am  too  sober  to  be  good  company.  Let  me  redress 
the  balance.  [He  takes  a  generous  draught  of  brandy, 
and  recovers  his  geniality.']  Aha!  That's  better.  And 
now  listen,  darling.  You  must  not  come  to  Court  with 
pistols  in  your  boots. 

EDSTASTON.    I  havc  fouud  them  useful. 

PATiOMKEsr.  Nonsense.  I'm  your  friend.  You  mis- 
took my  intention  because  I  was  drunk.  Now  that  I 
am  sober  —  in  moderation  —  I  will  prove  that  I  am 
your  friend.  Have  some  diamonds.  [Roaring.']  Hullo 
there!    Dogs,  pigs:   hullo! 

The  Sergeant  comes  in. 

THE  SERGEANT.  God  be  praiscd,  Little  Father:  you 
are  still  spared  to  us. 

PATiOMKiN.  Tell  them  to  bring  some  diamonds. 
Plenty  of  diamonds.  And  rubies.  Get  out.  [He  aims 
a  kick  at  the  Sergeant,  who  flees.]  Put  up  your  pistols, 
darling.  I'll  give  you  a  pair  with  gold  handgrips.  I 
am  your  friend. 

EDSTASTON  [replacing  the  pistols  in  his  boots  rather 
unwillingly].  Your  Highness  understands  that  if  I  am 
missing,  or  if  anything  happens  to  me,  there  will  be 
trouble. 


Scene  1  Great  Catherine  141 

PATiOMKiN  {_enthusiastically~\.    Call  me  darling. 

EDSTASTON.    It  Is  not  the  English  custom. 

PATIOMKIN.  You  have  no  hearts,  you  English! 
{Slap'ping  his  right  breast^    Heart!    Heart! 

EDSTASTON.  Pardon,  your  Highness:  your  heart  is 
on  the  other  side. 

PATIOMKIN  [_sur 'prised  and  impressed].  Is  it?  You 
are  learned!  You  are  a  doctor!  You  English  are  won- 
derful! We  are  barbarians,  drunken  pigs.  Catherine 
does  not  know  it;  but  we  are.  Catherine's  a  German. 
But  I  have  given  her  a  Russian  heart  \Jie  is  about  to 
slap  himself  again}. 

EDSTASTON  [delicately].  The  other  side,  your  High- 
ness. 

PATIOMKIN  [maudlin].  Darling,  a  true  Russian  has 
a  heart  on  both  sides. 

The  Sergeant  enters  carrying  a  goblet  filled  vnth  precious 
stones. 

PATIOMKIN-  Get  out.  [He  snatches  the  goblet  and 
kicks  the  Sergeant  out,  not  maliciously  but  from  habit, 
indeed  not  noticing  that  he  does  it]  Darling,  have  some 
diamonds.  Have  a  fistful.  [He  takes  up  a  handful  and 
lets  them  slip  back  through  his  fingers  into  the  goblet, 
which  he  then  offers  to  Edstaston.] 

EDSTASTON.    Thank  you,  I  don't  take  presents. 

PATIOMKIN  [amazed].    You  refuse! 

EDSTASTON.  I  thank  your  Highness;  but  it  is  not 
the  custom  for  English  gentlemen  to  take  presents  of 
that  kind. 

PATIOMKIN.    Are  you  really  an  Englishman? 

EDSTASTON  [boWs]\ 

PATIOMKIN.  You  are  the  first  Englishman  I  ever 
saw  refuse  anything  he  could  get.  [He  puts  the  goblet 
on  the  table;  then  turns  again  to  Edstaston.]  Listen, 
darling.  You  are  a  wrestler:  a  splendid  wrestler.  You 
threw  me  on  my  back  like  magic,  though  I  could  lift 


142  Great  Catherine  Scene  1 

you  with  one  hand.  Darling,  you  are  a  giant,  a 
paladin. 

EDSTASTON  [complacently]-  We  wrestle  rather  well 
in  my  part  of  England. 

PATIOMKIN.  I  have  a  Turk  who  is  a  wrestler:  a 
prisoner  of  war.  You  shall  wrestle  with  him  for  me. 
rU  stake  a  million  roubles  on  you. 

EDSTASTON  [iucensed].  Damn  you!  do  you  take  me 
for  a  prize-fighter?  How  dare  you  make  me  such  a 
proposal? 

PATIOMKIN  [with  wounded  feeling}.  Darling,  there 
is  no  pleasing  you.    Don't  you  like  me? 

EDSTASTON  [mollified].  Well,  in  a  sort  of  way  I  do; 
though  I  don't  know  why  I  should.  But  my  instruc- 
tions are  that  I  am  to  see  the  Empress;  and  — 

PATIOMKIN.  Darling,  you  shall  see  the  Empress. 
A  glorious  woman,  the  greatest  woman  in  the  world. 
But  lemme  give  you  piece  'vice  —  pah!  still  drunk. 
They  water  my  vinegar.  [He  shakes  himself;  clears  his 
throat;  and  resumes  soberly.]  If  Catherine  takes  a 
fancy  to  you,  you  may  ask  for  roubles,  diamonds, 
palaces,  titles,  orders,  anything!  and  you  may  aspire 
to  everything:  field-marshal,  admiral,  minister,  what 
you  please  —  except  Tsar. 

EDSTASTON.  I  tell  you  I  don't  want  to  ask  for  any- 
thing. Do  you  suppose  I  am  an  adventurer  and  a 
beggar? 

PATIOMKIN  [plaintively].  Why  not,  darling?  I  was 
an  adventurer.    I  was  a  beggar. 

EDSTASTON.    Oh,  you! 

PATIOMKIN.    Well:  what's  wrong  with  me? 

EDSTASTON.    You  are  a  Russian.    That's  different. 

PATIOMKIN  [effusively].  DarUng,  I  am  a  man;  and 
you  are  a  man;  and  Catherine  is  a  woman.  Woman 
reduces  us  all  to  the  common  denominator.  [Chu/ik- 
ling.]    Again  an  epigram!    [Gravely.]    You  understand 


Scene  1  Great  Catherine  143 

it,  I  hope.  Have  you  had  a  college  education,  darling? 
I  have. 

EDSTASTON.    Certainly.    I  am  a  Bachelor  of  Arts. 

PATiOMKiN.  It  is  enough  that  you  are  a  bachelor, 
darling:  Catherine  will  supply  the  arts.  Aha!  An- 
other epigram!    I  am  in  the  vein  today. 

EDSTASTON  [ewharrassed  and  a  little  offended}.  I 
must  ask  your  Highness  to  change  the  subject.  As  a 
visitor  in  Russia,  I  am  the  guest  of  the  Empress;  and 
I  must  tell  you  plainly  that  I  have  neither  the  right 
nor  the  disposition  to  speak  lightly  of  her  Majesty. 

PATIOMKIN.    You  have  conscientious  scruples.'^ 

EDSTASTON.    I  havc  the  scruples  of  a  gentleman. 

PATIOMKIN.  In  Russia  a  gentleman  has  no  scruples. 
In  Russia  we  face  facts. 

EDSTASTON.  In  England,  sir,  a  gentleman  never 
faces  any  facts  if  they  are  unpleasant  facts. 

PATIOMKIN.  In  real  life,  darling,  all  facts  are  un- 
pleasant. [^Greatly  pleased  with  himself.']  Another  epi- 
gram! Where  is  my  accursed  chancellor  .'^  these  gems 
should  be  written  down  and  recorded  for  posterity.  \^He 
rushes  to  the  table:  sits  down:  and  snatches  up  a  pen. 
Then,  recollecting  himself.']  But  I  have  not  asked  you 
to  sit  down.  [^He  rises  and  goes  to  the  other  chair.] 
I  am  a  savage:  a  barbarian.  \^He  throws  the  shirt  and 
coat  over  the  table  on  to  the  floor  and  puts  his  sword  on 
the  table.]     Be  seated,  Captain. 

EDSTASTON.     Thank  you. 

They  bow  to  one  another  ceremoniously.  Patiomkin's 
tendency  to  grotesque  exaggeration  costs  him  his  balance; 
he  nearly  falls  over  Edstaston,  who  rescues  him  and  takes 
the  proffered  chair. 

PATIOMKIN  \_resuming  his  seat].  By  the  way,  what 
was  the  piece  of  advice  I  was  going  to  give  you? 

EDSTASTON.  As  you  did  not  give  it,  I  don't  know. 
Allow  me  to  add  that  I  have  not  asked  for  your  advice. 


144  Great  Catherine  Scene  1 

PATioiviKiN.  I  give  it  to  you  unasked,  delightful 
Englishman.  I  remember  it  now.  It  was  this.  Don't 
try  to  become  Tsar  of  Russia. 

EDSTASTON  [iTi  astonishment].  I  haven't  the  slightest 
intention  — 

PATiOMKiN.  Not  now;  but  you  will  have:  take  my 
words  for  it.  It  will  strike  you  as  a  splendid  idea  to 
have  conscientious  scruples  —  to  desire  the  blessing  of 
the  Church  on  your  union  with  Catherine. 

EDSTASTON  [rising  in  utter  amazement}.  My  union 
with  Catherine!    You're  mad. 

PATIOMKIN  {unmoved~\.  The  day  you  hint  at  such  a 
thing  will  be  the  day  of  your  downfall.  Besides,  it  is 
not  lucky  to  be  Catherine's  husband.  You  know  what 
happened  to  Peter  .f* 

EDSTASTON  [shortly;  sitting  down  again}.  I  do  not 
wish  to  discuss  it. 

PATIOMKIN.     You  think  she  murdered  him? 

EDSTASTON.     I  know  that  people  have  said  so. 

PATIOMKIN  [thunderously;  springing  to  his  feet}.  It 
is  a  lie :  Orlofl  murdered  him.  [Subsiding  a  little.}  He 
also  knocked  my  eye  out;  but  [sitting  down  placidly} 
I  succeeded  him  for  all  that.  And  [patting  Edstaston's 
hand  very  affectionately}  I'm  sorry  to  say,  darling,  that 
if  you  become  Tsar,  /  shall  murder  you. 

EDSTASTON  [ironically  returning  the  caress}.  Thank 
you.  The  occasion  will  not  arise.  [Rising.}  I 
have  the  honor  to  wish  your  Highness  good 
morning. 

PATIOMKIN  [jumping  up  and  stopping  him  on  his  way 
to  the  door}.  Tut  tut!  I'm  going  to  take  you  to  the 
Empress  nowy  this  very  instant. 

EDSTASTON.  In  thcse  boots?  Impossible!  I  must 
change. 

PATIOMKIN.  Nonsense!  You  shall  come  just  as  you 
are.    You  shall  show  her  your  calves  later  on. 


Scene  1  Great  Catherine  145 

EDSTASTON.  But  it  wlll  take  me  only  half  an  hour 
to  — 

PATiOMKiN.  In  half  an  hour  it  will  be  too  late  for 
the  petit  lever.  Come  along.  Damn  it,  man,  I  must 
oblige  the  British  ambassador,  and  the  French  am- 
bassador, and  old  Fritz,  and  Monsieur  Voltaire  and 
the  rest  of  them.  l^He  shouts  rudely  to  the  door. 2  Varinka ! 
[^To  Edstaston,  with  tears  in  his  voice ^  Varinka  shall 
persuade  you:  nobody  can  refuse  Varinka  anything. 
My  niece.  A  treasure,  I  assure  you.  Beautiful!  de- 
voted! fascinating!  [^Shouting  again.']  Varinka,  where 
the  devil  are  you? 

VABINKA  Ijeturning].  I'll  not  be  shouted  for.  You 
have  the  voice  of  a  bear,  and  the  manners  of  a  tinker. 

PATIOMKIN.  Tsh-sh-sh.  Little  angel  Mother:  you 
must  behave  yourself  before  the  EngHsh  captain.  [He 
takes  off  his  dressing-govm  and  throws  it  over  the  papers 
and  the  breakfasts:  picks  up  his  coat:  and  disappears 
behind  the  screen  to  complete  his  toilette.'} 

EDSTASTON.     Madam!    [He  bows.] 

VARINKA  [courtseying].     Monsieur  le  Capitaine! 

EDSTASTON.  I  must  apologizc  for  the  disturbance  I 
made,  madam. 

PATIOMKIN  [behind  the  screen].  You  must  not  call 
her  madam.  You  must  call  her  Little  Mother,  and 
beautiful  darling. 

EDSTASTON.  My  rcspcct  for  the  lady  will  not  per- 
mit it. 

VARINKA.  Respect!  How  can  you  respect  the  niece 
of  a  savage? 

EDSTASTON  [deprccatingly].     Oh,  madam! 

VARINKA.  Heaven  is  my  witness.  Little  English 
Father,  we  need  someone  who  is  not  afraid  of  him. 
He  is  so  strong!  I  hope  you  will  throw  him  down  on 
the  floor  many,  many,  many  times. 

PATIOMKIN  [behind  the  screen].     Varinka! 


146  Great  Catherine  Scene  1 

VARiNKA..    Yes? 

PATIOMKIN.  Go  and  look  through  the  keyhole  of 
the  Imperial  bed-chamber;  and  bring  me  word  whether 
the  Empress  is  awake  yet. 

VABiNKA.  Fi  done!  I  do  not  look  through 
keyholes. 

PATiOMKrN  [emerging,  having  arranged  his  shirt  and 
put  on  his  diamonded  coai^.  You  have  been  badly 
brought  up,  little  darling.  Would  any  lady  or  gentle- 
man walk  unannounced  into  a  room  without  first  look- 
ing through  the  keyhole.'^  [Taking  his  sword  from  the 
table  and  putting  it  on.]  The  great  thing  in  life  is  to 
be  simple;  and  the  perfectly  simple  thing  is  to  look 
through  keyholes.  Another  epigram:  the  fifth  this 
morning!  Where  is  my  fool  of  a  chancellor?  Where  is 
Popof? 

EDSTASTON  [chohing  with  suppressed  laughter'] ! ! ! ! 

PATIOMKIN  [gratified].  Darling,  you  appreciate  my 
epigram. 

EDSTASTON.  Excusc  me.  Pop  off!  Ha!  ha!  I  can't 
help  laughing.  What's  his  real  name,  by  the  way,  in 
case  I  meet  him? 

VARINEA  [surprised].  His  real  name?  Popof,  of 
course.     Why  do  you  laugh,  Little  Father? 

EDSTASTON.  How  cau  anyone  with  a  sense  of  humor 
help  laughing?    Pop  off!    [He  is  convulsed,] 

VARINKA  [looking  at  her  uncle,  taps  her  forehead  sig- 
nificantly] ! ! 

PATIOMKIN  [aside  to  Varinka].  No:  only  English. 
He  will  amuse  Catherine.  [To Edstaston.]  Come!  you 
shall  tell  the  joke  to  the  Empress:  she  is  by  way  of 
being  a  humorist  [he  takes  him  by  the  arm,  and  leads 
him  towards  the  door]. 

EDSTASTON  [resisting].    No,  really.    I  am  not  fit  — 

PATIOMKIN.     Persuade  him,  Little  angel  Mother. 

VARINKA  [taking  his  other  arm].    Yes,  yes,  yes.  Little 


Scene  1  Great  Catherine  147 

English  Father:  God  knows  it  is  your  duty  to  be  brave 
and  wait  on  the  Empress.     Come. 

EDST ASTON.     No.     I  had  rather  — 

PATiOMKiN  [hauling  him  along}.     Come. 

VARiNKA  \jpulling  him  and  coaxing  him'].  Come,  little 
love :  you  can't  refuse  me. 

EDST  ASTON.     But  how  cau  1? 

PATIOMKIN.     Why  not?     She  won't  eat  you. 

VARINKA.     She  will;  but  you  must  come. 

EDSTASTON.  I  assure  you  —  it  is  quite  out  of  the 
question  —  my  clothes  — 

VARINKA.      You  look  pcrfcct. 

PATIOMKIN.     Come  along,  darling. 

EDSTASTON  {^struggling'].     Impossible  — 

VARINKA.     Come,  come,  come. 

EDSTASTON.    No.    Belicve  me  —  I  don't  wish  —  I  — 

VARINKA.     Carry  him,  uncle. 

PATIOMKIN  [lifting  him  in  his  arms  like  a  father  carry- 
ing a  little  boy].    Yes:   I'll  carry  you. 

EDSTASTON.     Dash  it  all,  this  is  ridiculous! 

VARINKA  [seizing  his  ankles  and  dancing  as  he  is 
carried  out].  You  must  come.  If  you  kick  you  will 
blacken  my  eyes. 

PATIOMKIN.     Come,  baby,  come. 

By  this  time  they  have  made  their  way  through  the  door 
and  are  out  of  hearing. 


THE  SECOND  SCENE 

The  Empresses  petit  lever.  The  central  doors  are 
closed.  Those  who  enter  through  them  find  on  their  left, 
on  a  dais  of  two  broad  steps,  a  magnificent  curtained  bed. 
Beyond  it  a  door  in  the  panelling  leads  to  the  Empresses 
cabinet.  Near  the  foot  of  the  bed,  in  the  middle  of  the 
room,  stands  a  gilt  chair,  vnth  the  Imperial  arms  carved 
and  the  Imperial  monogram  embroidered. 

The  Court  is  in  attendance,  standing  in  two  melan- 
choly rows  down  the  side  of  the  room  opposite  to  the  bed, 
solemn,  bored,  waiting  for  the  Empress  to  awaken.  The 
Princess  Dashkoff,  vnth  two  ladies,  stands  a  little  in 
front  of  the  line  of  courtiers,  by  the  Imperial  chair. 
Silence,  broken  only  by  the  yawns  and  whispers  of  the 
courtiers.  Naryshkin,  the  Chamberlain,  stands  by  the 
head  of  the  bed. 

A  loud  yawn  is  heard  from  behind  the  curtains. 

NARYSHKIN  \Jiolding  up  a  warning  hand'].     Ssh! 

The  courtiers  hastily  cease  whispering:  dress  up  their 
lines:  and  stiffen.  Dead  silence.  A  bell  tinkles  within 
the  curtains.  Naryshkin  and  the  Princess  solemnly 
draw  them  and  reveal  the  Empress. 

Catherine  turns  over  on  her  back,  and  stretches  herself, 

CATHERINE  \_yawning~\.  Heigho  —  ah  —  yah  —  ah  — 
ow  —  what  o'clock  is  it?     [Iler  accent  is  German^ 

NARYSHKIN  \_  formally'].  Her  Imperial  Majesty  is 
awake.     \_The  Court  falls  on  its  knees.] 

ALL.     Good  morning  to  your  Majesty. 
148 


Scene  2  Great  Catherine  149 

NARYSHKiN.    Half-past  ten,  Little  Mother. 

CATHERINE  [^sitting  up  abruptly}-  Potztausend! 
[^Contemplating  the  kneeling  courtiers.}  Oh,  get  up, 
get  up.  [All  rise.}  Your  etiquette  bores  me.  I  am 
hardly  awake  in  the  morning  before  it  begins.  [Y aton- 
ing againy  and  relapsing  sleepily  against  her  pillows.} 
Why  do  they  do  it,  Naryshkin.? 

NARYSHKIN.  God  kuows  it  is  not  for  your  sake.  Little 
Mother.  But  you  see  if  you  were  not  a  great  queen 
they  would  all  be  nobodies. 

CATHERINE  [sitting  up}.  They  make  me  do  it  to 
keep  up  their  own  little  dignities?     So? 

NARYSHKIN.  Exactly.  Also  because  if  they  didn't 
you  might  have  them  flogged,  dear  Little  Mother. 
CATHERINE  [springing  energetically  out  of  bed  and  seat- 
ing herself  on  the  edge  of  it}.  Flogged !  I !  A  Liberal 
Empress!  A  philosopher!  You  are  a  barbarian, 
Naryshkin.  [She  rises  and  turns  to  the  courtiers. 
And  then,  as  if  I  cared !  [She  turns  again  to  Naryshkin. 
You  should  know  by  this  time  that  I  am  frank  anc 
original  in  character,  like  an  Englishman.  [She  walks 
about  restlessly.}  No:  what  maddens  me  about  all 
this  ceremony  is  that  I  am  the  only  person  in  Russia 
who  gets  no  fun  out  of  my  being  Empress.  You  all 
glory  in  me:  you  bask  in  my  smiles:  you  get  titles 
and  honors  and  favors  from  me:  you  are  dazzled  by 
my  crown  and  my  robes:  you  feel  splendid  when  you 
have  been  admitted  to  my  presence;  and  when  I  say 
a  gracious  word  to  you,  you  talk  about  it  to  everyone 
you  meet  for  a  week  afterwards.  But  what  do  /  get 
out  of  it?  Nothing.  [She  throws  herself  into  the  chair. 
Naryshkin  deprecates  vnth  a  gesture;  she  hurls  an  em- 
phatic repetition  at  him.}  Nothing!!  I  wear  a  crown 
until  my  neck  aches:  I  stand  looking  majestic  until 
I  am  ready  to  drop:  I  have  to  smile  at  ugly  old  am- 
bassadors and  frown  and  turn  my  back  on  young  and 


150  Great  Catherine  Scene  2 

handsome  ones.  Nobody  gives  me  anything.  When  I 
was  only  an  Archduchess,  the  English  ambassador 
used  to  give  me  money  whenever  I  wanted  it  —  or 
rather  whenever  he  wanted  to  get  anything  out  of  my 
sacred  predecessor  Elizabeth  [the  Court  hows  to  the 
ground];  but  now  that  I  am  Empress  he  never  gives 
me  a  kopek.  When  I  have  headaches  and  colics  I  envy 
the  scullery  maids.  And  you  are  not  a  bit  grateful  to 
me  for  all  my  care  of  you,  my  work,  my  thought,  my 
fatigue,  my  sufferings. 

THE  PRINCESS  DASHKOFF.  God  knows.  Little  Mother, 
we  all  implore  you  to  give  your  wonderful  brain  a  rest. 
That  is  why  you  get  headaches.  Monsieur  Voltaire 
also  has  headaches.    His  brain  is  just  like  yours. 

CATHERINE.  Dashkoff ,  what  a  liar  you  are !  [_Dash- 
koff  curtsies  with  impressive  dignity  J]  And  you  think 
you  are  flattering  me!  Let  me  tell  you  I  would  not 
give  a  rouble  to  have  the  brains  of  all  the  philosophers 
in  France.    What  is  our  business  for  today  .^^ 

NARYSHKiN.  The  ucw  muscum,  Little  Mother.  But 
the  model  will  not  be  ready  until  tonight. 

CATHERINE  [rising  eagerly].  Yes,  the  museum.  An 
enlightened  capital  should  have  a  museum.  [She  paces 
the  chamber  with  a  deep  sense  of  the  importance  of  the 
museum^  It  shall  be  one  of  the  wonders  of  the  world.  I 
must  have  specimens :  specimens,  specimens,  specimens. 

NARYSHKIN.  You  are  in  high  spirits  this  morning. 
Little  Mother. 

CATHERINE  [vnth  sudden  levity].  I  am  always  in 
high  spirits,  even  when  people  do  not  bring  me  my 
slippers.  [She  runs  to  the  chair  and  sits  down^  thrust- 
ing her  feet  out.] 

The  two  ladies  rush  to  her  feet,  each  carrying  a  slipper. 
Catherine,  about  to  put  her  feet  into  them,  is  checked  by  a 
disturbance  in  the  antechamber. 

PATIOMKIN    [carrying    Edstaston    through    the    ante- 


Scene  2  Great  Catherine  151 

chambe 
ful  ba 
sings.2 


chamber].     Useless  to  struggle.     Come  along,  beauti- 
ful  baby   darling.      Come   to   Little   Mother.      [ITe 


March  him  baby. 
Baby,  baby, 
Lit-tle  ba-by  bumpkins. 

VARiNKA.  [_  joining  in  to  the  same  doggerel  in  canon,  a 
third  above].    March  him,  baby,  etc.,  etc. 

EDSTASTON  [trying  to  make  himself  heard}.  No,  no. 
This  is  carrying  a  joke  too  far.  I  must  insist.  Let  me 
down!  Hang  it,  toUl  you  let  me  down!  Confound  it! 
No,  no.  Stop  playing  the  fool,  will  you?  We  don't 
understand  this  sort  of  thing  in  England.  I  shall  be 
disgraced.     Let  me  down. 

CATHERINE  [meanwhile].  What  a  horrible  noise! 
Naryshkin,  see  what  it  is. 

Naryshkin  goes  to  the  door. 

CATHERINE  [listening].    That  is  Prince  Patiomkin. 

NARYSHKIN  [calling  from  the  door].  Little  Mother, 
a  stranger. 

Catherine  plunges  into  bed  again  and  covers  herself  up, 
PatiomkiUy  followed  by  Varinka^  carries  Edstaston  in: 
dumps  him  down  on  the  foot  of  the  bed:  and  staggers 
past  it  to  the  cabinet  door.  Varinka  joins  the  courtiers 
at  the  opposite  side  of  the  room.  Catherine,  blazing  unth 
torath,  pushes  Edstaston  off  her  bed  on  to  the  floor:  gets 
out  of  bed:  and  turns  on  Patiomkin  with  so  terrible  an 
expression  that  all  kneel  down  hastily  except  Edstaston, 
who  is  sprawling  on  the  carpet  in  angry  confusion. 

CATHERINE.  Patiomkiu,  how  dare  you.^^  [Looking 
at  Edstaston.]    What  is  this? 

PATIOMKIN  [on  his  knees,  tearfully].  I  don't  know. 
I  am  drunk.     What  is  this,  Varinka? 

EDSTASTON  [scrambling  to  his  feet].  Madam,  this 
drunken  ruffian  — 


152  Great  Catherine  Scene  2 

PATiOMKiN.  Thas  true.  Drungn  ruffian.  Took 
dvantage  of  my  being  drunk.  Said:  take  me  to  Lil 
angel  Mother.  Take  me  to  beaufl  Empress.  Take 
me  to  the  grea*st  woman  on  earth.  Thas  whas  he 
he  said.    I  took  him.    I  was  wrong.    I  am  not  sober. 

CATHERINE.  Men  have  grown  sober  in  Siberia  for 
less.  Prince. 

PATIOMKIN.  Serve  em  right!  Sgusting  habit.  Ask 
Varinka. 

Catherine  turns  her  face  from  Mm  to  the  Court.  The 
courtiers  see  that  she  is  trying  not  to  laugh,  and  know  by 
experience  that  she  will  not  succeed.  They  rise,  relieved 
and  grinning. 

VARINKA.    It  is  true.    He  drinks  like  a  pig. 

PATIOMKIN  \j)laintively~].  No:  not  like  pig.  Like 
prince.  Lil  Mother  made  poor  Patiomkin  prince. 
Whas  use  being  prince  if  I  mayn't  drink.? 

CATHERINE  [biting  her  lips'].    Go.    I  am  offended. 

PATIOMKIN.     Don't  scold,  Lil  Mother. 

CATHERINE  [imperiously'].     Go. 

PATIOMKIN  [rising  unsteadily].  Yes:  go.  Go  bye 
bye.  Very  sleepy.  Berr  go  bye  bye  than  go  Siberia. 
Go  bye  bye  in  Lil  Mother's  bed  [he  pretends  to  make  an 
attempt  to  get  into  the  bed]. 

CATHERINE  [energetically  pulling  him  back].  No, 
no!  Patiomkin!  What  are  you  thinking  of .'^  [He  falls 
like  a  log  on  the  floor,  apparently  dead  drunk.] 

THE  PRINCESS  DASHKOFF.  Scaudalous!  An  insult  to 
your  Imperial  Majesty! 

CATHERINE.  Dashkoff:  you  have  no  sense  of  humor. 
[She  steps  down  to  the  floor  level  and  looks  indulgently 
at  Patiomkin.  He  gurgles  brutishly.  She  has  an  impulse 
of  disgust.]  Hog.  [She  kicks  him  as  hard  as  she  can.] 
Oh !  You  have  broken  my  toe.  Brute.  Beast.  Dash- 
koff is  quite  right.     Do  you  hear? 

PATIOMKIN.    If  you  ask  my  pi-pinion  of  Dashkoff,  my 


Scene  2  Great  Catherine  153 

pipinion  is  that  Dashkoff  is  drunk.  Scanlous.  Poor 
Patiomkin  go  bye  bye.  [_He  relapses  into  drunken 
slumbers. 2 

Some  of  the  courtiers  move  to  carry  him  away. 

CATHERINE  [^Stopping  them"].  Let  him  lie.  Let  him 
sleep  it  off.  If  he  goes  out  it  will  be  to  a  tavern  and 
low  company  for  the  rest  of  the  day.  {Indulgently. ~] 
There!  {She  takes  a  pillow  from  the  bed  and  puts  it 
under  his  head:  then  turns  to  Edstaston:  surveys  him  with 
perfect  dignity:  and  asks,  in  her  queenliest  manner. ~] 
Varinka,  who  is  this  gentleman? 

VARiNKA.  A  foreign  captain:  I  cannot  pronounce 
his  name.  I  think  he  is  mad.  He  came  to  the  Prince 
and  said  he  must  see  your  Majesty.  He  can  talk  of 
nothing  else.    We  could  not  prevent  him. 

ESDTASTON  [overwhelmed  by  this  apparent  betrayal}. 
Oh!  Madam:  I  am  perfectly  sane:  I  am  actually  an 
Englishman.  I  should  never  have  dreamt  of  approach- 
ing your  Majesty  without  the  fullest  credentials.  I 
have  letters  from  the  English  ambassador,  from  the 
Prussian  ambassador.  [Naively  7\  But  everybody  as- 
sured me  that  Prince  Patiomkin  is  all-powerful  with 
your  Majesty;  so  I  naturally  applied  to  him. 

PATIOMKIN  [interrupts  the  conversation  by  an  agonized 
wheezing  groan  as  of  a  donkey  beginning  to  bray~\\\\ 

CATHERINE  [Ukc  a  fishfag}.  Schweig,  du  Hund. 
[Resuming  her  impressive  royal  manner!]  Have  you 
never  been  taught,  sir,  how  a  gentleman  should  enter 
the  presence  of  a  sovereign? 

EDSTASTON.  Ycs,  Madam;  but  I  did  not  enter  your 
presence:  I  was  carried. 

CATHERINE.  But  you  say  you  asked  the  Prince  to 
carry  you. 

EDSTASTON.  Certainly  not.  Madam.  I  protested 
against  it  with  all  my  might.  I  appeal  to  this  lady  to 
confirm  me. 


154  Great  Catherine  Scene  2 

VARiNKA  \jpretending  to  he  indignant].  Yes,  you 
protested.  But,  all  the  same,  you  were  very  very  very 
anxious  to  see  her  Imperial  Majesty.  You  blushed 
when  the  Prince  spoke  of  her.  You  threatened  to 
strike  him  across  the  face  with  your  sword  because 
you  thought  he  did  not  speak  enthusiastically  enough 
of  her.  [To  Catherine.]  Trust  me:  he  has  seen  your 
Imperial  Majesty  before. 

CATHERINE  [to  Edstaston].    You  have  seen  us  before? 

EDSTASTON.     At  the  review.  Madam. 

VARINKA  [triumphantly].  Aha !  I  knew  it.  Your 
Majesty  wore  the  hussar  uniform.  He  saw  how  radiant ! 
how  splendid!  your  Majesty  looked.  Oh!  he  has 
dared  to  admire  your  Majesty.  Such  insolence  is  not 
to  be  endured. 

EDSTASTON.  All  EuTopc  is  a  party  to  that  insolence, 
Madam. 

THE  PRINCESS  DASHKOFF.      All  EuTOpC  is  COUtcut  tO 

do  so  at  a  respectful  distance.  It  is  possible  to  admire 
her  Majesty's  policy  and  her  eminence  in  literature 
and  philosophy  without  performing  acrobatic  feats  in 
the  Imperial  bed. 

EDSTASTON.  I  know  nothing  about  her  Majesty's 
eminence  in  policy  or  philosophy:  I  don't  pretend  to 
understand  such  things.  I  speak  as  a  practical  man. 
And  I  never  knew  that  foreigners  had  any  policy: 
I  always  thought  that  policy  was  Mr.  Pitt's  business. 

CATHERINE  [lifting  her  eyebrows].     So? 

VARINKA.  What  else  did  you  presume  to  admire  her 
Majesty  tor,  pray? 

EDSTASTON  [addled~\.  Well,  I  —  I  —  I  —  that  is,  I  — 
[He  stammers  himself  dumb.] 

CATHERINE  [after  a  pitiless  silence].  We  are  waiting 
for  your  answer. 

EDSTASTON.  But  I  ucvcr  Said  I  admired  your 
Majesty.     The  lady  has  twisted  my  words. 


Scene  2  Great  Catherine  155 

VARINKA.     You  don't  admire  her,  then? 

EDSTASTON.  Well,  I  —  naturally  —  of  course,  I  can't 
deny  that  the  uniform  was  very  becoming  —  perhaps 
a  little  unfeminine  —  still  — 

Dead  silence.  Catherine  and  the  Court  watch  him 
stonily.     He  is  wretchedly  embarrassed. 

CATHERINE  \_with  cold  majesty^.  Well,  sir:  is  that  all 
you  have  to  say? 

EDSTASTON.  Surcly  there  is  no  harm  in  noticing  that 
er  —  that  er  —  [^He  stops  again.^ 

CATHERINE.  Noticing  that  er  — ?  \^He  gazes  at  her, 
speechless,  like  a  fascinated  rabbit.  She  repeats  fiercely.^ 
That  er  — ? 

EDSTASTON  [^startled  into  speech^.  Well,  that  your 
Majesty  was  —  was  —  [_soothingly~\  Well,  let  me  put 
it  this  way:  that  it  was  rather  natural  for  a 
man  to  admire  your  Majesty  without  being  a 
philosopher. 

CATHERINE  [^Suddenly  smiling  and  extending  her  hand 
to  him  to  be  kissed].     Com-tier! 

EDSTASTON  [Jdssing  it'].  Not  at  all.  Your 
Majesty  is  very  good.  I  have  been  very  awkward; 
but  I  did  not  intend  it.  I  am  rather  stupid,  I  am 
afraid. 

CATHERINE.  Stupid!  By  no  means.  Courage,  Cap- 
tain: we  are  pleased.  [He  falls  on  his  knee.  She  takes 
his  cheeks  in  her  hands:  turns  up  his  face:  and  adds] 
We  are  greatly  pleased.  [She  slaps  his  cheek  coquettishly: 
he  bows  almost  to  his  knee.]  The  petit  lever  is  over. 
[She  turns  to  go  into  the  cabmety  and  stumbles  against 
the  supine  Patiomkin.]  Ach!  [Edstaston  springs  to 
her  assistance,  seizing  Patiomkin's  heels  and  shifting 
him  out  of  the  Empresses  path.]  We  thank  you. 
Captain. 

He  bows  gallantly  and  is  rewarded  by  a  very  gracious 
smile.    Then  Catherine  goes  into  her  cabinet,  followed  by 


156  Great  Catherine  Scene  2 

the  princess  Dashkoff^  who  turns  at  the  door  to  make 
a  deep  courtsey  to  Edstaston. 

VARINKA.  Happy  Little  Father!  Remember:  I  did 
this  for  you.    [_She  runs  out  after  the  Empress.~] 

Edstaston,  somewhat  dazed,  crosses  the  room,  to  the 
courtiers,  and  is  received  with  marked  deference,  each 
courtier  making  him  a  profound  how  or  curtsey  before 
withdrauring  through  the  central  doors.  He  returns  each 
obeisance  with  a  nervous  jerk,  and  turns  away  from  it, 
only  to  find  another  courtier  bowing  at  the  other  side. 
The  process  finally  reduced  him  to  distraction,  as  he 
humps  into  one  in  the  act  of  bowing  to  another  and  then 
has  to  bow  his  apologies.  But  at  last  they  are  all  gone 
except  Naryshhin. 

EDSTASTON.      Ouf ! 

PATiOMKiN  {jumping  up  vigorously"].  You  have  done 
it,  darUng.    Superbly!    Beautifully! 

EDSTASTON  {astonishcd}.  Do  you  mean  to  say  you 
are  not  drunk? 

PATIOMKIN.  Not  dead  drunk,  darling.  Only  diplo- 
matically drunk.  As  a  drunken  hog,  I  have  done  for 
you  in  ^ve  minutes  what  I  could  not  have  done  in 
five  months  as  a  sober  man.  Your  fortune  is  made. 
She  likes  you. 

EDSTASTON.     The  devil  she  does ! 

PATIOMKIN.     Why?    Aren't  you  delighted? 

EDSTASTON.  Delighted!  Gracious  heavens,  man,  I 
am  engaged  to  be  married. 

PATIOMKIN.  What  matter?  She  is  in  England,  isn't 
she? 

EDSTASTON.  No.  She  has  just  arrived  La  St.  Peters- 
burg. 

THE  PRINCESS  DASHKOFF  [returning].  Captain  Eds- 
taston, the  Empress  is  robed,  and  commands  your 
presence. 

EDSTASTON.     Say  I  was  gone  before  you  arrived 


Scene  2  Great  Catherine  157 

with  the  message.  [He  hurries  out.  The  other  three, 
too  taken  aback  to  stop  him,  stare  after  him  in  the  utmost 
astonishment.'] 

NARYSHKiN  [turning  from  the  door].  She  will  have 
him  knouted.    He  is  a  dead  man. 

THE  PRmcEss  DASHKOFF.  But  what  am  I  to  do? 
I  cannot  take  such  an  answer  to  the  Empress. 

PATiOMKiN.  P-P-P-P-P-P-W-W-W-W-W-rrrrrr  [a 
long  puff,  turning  into  a  growQl  [He  spits.]  I  must 
kick  somebody. 

NARYSHKIN  [flying  precipitately  through  the  central 
doors].     No,  no.     Please. 

THE  PRINCESS  DASHKOFF  [throwing  herself  recklessly  in 
front  of  Patiomkin  as  he  starts  in  pursuit  of  the  Chamber- 
lain]. Kick  me.  Disable  me.  It  will  be  an  excuse  for 
not  going  back  to  her.    Kick  me  hard. 

PATIOMKIN.  Yah!  [He  flings  her  on  the  bed  and 
dashes  after  Naryshkin.] 


THE  THIRD  SCENE 

In  a  terrace  garden  overlooking  the  Neva.  Claire,  a 
robust  young  English  lady,  is  leaning  on  the  river  wall. 
She  turns  expectantly  on  hearing  the  garden  gate  opened 
and  closed.  Edstaston  hurries  in.  With  a  cry  of  delight 
she  throws  her  arms  round  his  neck, 

CLAIRE.     Darling! 

EDSTASTON  [making  a  wry  face"].  Don't  call  me 
darling. 

CLAIRE  [amazed  and  chilled].     Why.5* 

EDSTASTON.  I  have  been  called  darling  all  the 
morning. 

CLAIRE  [with  a  flash  of  jealousy].    By  whom? 

EDSTASTON.  By  everybody.  By  the  most  unutter- 
able swine.  And  if  we  do  not  leave  this  abominable 
city  now:  do  you  hear.^  now;  I  shall  be  called  darling 
by  the  Empress. 

CLAIRE  [u)ith  magnificent  snohbery].  She  would  not 
dare.    Did  you  tell  her  you  were  engaged  to  me? 

EDSTASTON.     Of  coursc  not. 

CLAIRE.    Why? 

EDSTASTON.  Bccausc  I  didn't  particularly  want  to 
have  you  knouted,  and  to  be  hanged  or  sent  to  Siberia 
myself. 

CLAIRE.     What  on  earth  do  you  mean? 

EDSTASTON.  Well,  the  long  and  short  of  it  is  — 
don't  think  me  a  coxcomb,  Claire:  it  is  too  serious 
to  mince  matters  —  I  have  seen  the  Empress;   and  — 

CLAIRE.    Well,  you  wanted  to  see  her. 

158 


Scene  3  Great  Catherine  159 

EDSTASTON.     Ycs;  but  the  Empress  has  seen  me. 

CLAIRE.     She  has  fallen  in  love  with  you ! 

EDSTASTON.     How  did  you  know? 

CLAIRE.     Dearest:  as  if  anyone  could  help  it. 

EDSTASTON.  Oh,  dou't  make  me  feel  like  a  fool. 
But,  though  it  does  sound  conceited  to  say  it,  I  flatter 
myself  I*m  better  looking  than  Patiomkin  and  the 
other  hogs  she  is  accustomed  to.  Anyhow,  I  daren't 
risk  staying. 

CLAIRE.  What  a  nuisance!  Mamma  will  be  furious 
at  having  to  pack,  and  at  missing  the  Court  ball  this 
evening. 

EDSTASTON.  I  Can't  help  that.  We  haven't  a  mo- 
ment to  lose. 

CLAIRE.  May  I  tell  her  she  will  be  knouted  if  we 
stay.f^ 

EDSTASTON.     Do,  dcarcst. 

He  kisses  her  and  lets  her  go,  expecting  her  to  run  into 
the  house. 

CLAIRE  [j)Q,using  thoughtfully}.  Is  she  —  is  she  good- 
looking  when  you  see  her  close.'* 

EDSTASTON.     Not  a  patch  on  you,  dearest. 

CLAIRE  [  jealous'].     Then  you  did  see  her  close? 

EDSTASTON.     Fairly  close. 

CLAIRE.  Indeed!  How  close?  No:  that's  silly  of 
me :  I  will  tell  mamma.  [_She  is  going  out  when  Narysh- 
kin  enters  with  the  Sergeant  and  a  squad  of  soldiers.} 
What  do  you  want  here? 

The  Sergeant  goes  to  Edstaston:  plumps  down  on  his 
knees:  and  takes  out  a  magnificent  pair  of  pistols  with 
gold  grips.  He  proffers  them  to  Edstaston^  holding  them 
by  the  barrels. 

NARYSHKiN.  Captain  Edstaston:  his  Highness 
Prince  Patiomkin  sends  you  the  pistols  he  promised 
you. 

THE  SERGEANT.    Take  them,  Little  Father;   and  do 


160  Great  Catherine  Scene  3 

not  forget  us  poor  soldiers  who  have  brought  them  to 
you;  for  God  knows  we  get  but  Httle  to  drink. 

EDSTASTON  \_irresolutely}.  But  I  can't  take  these 
valuable  things.  By  Jiminy,  though,  they're  beauti- 
ful!   Look  at  them,  Claire. 

As  he  is  taking  the  'pistols  the  kneeling  Sergeant  sud- 
denly drops  them;  flings  himself  forward;  and  embraces 
Edstaston's  hips  to  prevent  him  from  drawing  his  own 
pistols  from  his  boots. 

THE  SERGEANT.  Lay  hold  of  him  there.  Pin  his 
arms.    I  have  his  pistols.    [^The  soldiers  seize  Edstaston.~\ 

EDSTASTON.  Ah,  would  you,  damn  you!  [Be  drives 
his  knee  into  the  Sergeant's  epigastrium,  and  struggles 
furiously  vnth  his  captors.2 

THE  SERGEANT  [rolling  on  the  ground,  gasping 
and  groaning~\,  Owgh!  Murder!  Holy  Nicholas! 
Owwwgh! 

CLAIRE.  Help!  help!  They  are  killing  Charles. 
Help! 

NARYSHKIN  [seizing  her  and  clapping  his  hand  over 
her  mouth'].  Tie  him  neck  and  crop.  Ten  thousand 
blows  of  the  stick  if  you  let  him  go.  [Claire  twists 
herself  loose:  turns  on  him:  and  cuffs  him  furiously^ 
Yow  —  ow!    Have  mercy,  Little  Mother. 

CLAIRE.  You  wretch!  Help!  Help!  Police!  We  are 
being  murdered.     Help! 

The  Sergeant,  who  has  risen,  comes  to  Naryshkin's 
rescue,  and  grasps  Claire's  hands,  enabling  Naryshkin 
to  gag  her  again.  By  this  time  Edstaston  and  his  captors 
are  all  rolling  on  the  ground  together.  They  get  Edstaston 
on  his  back  and  fasten  his  wrists  together  behind  his  knees. 
Next  they  put  a  broad  strap  round  his  ribs.  Finally 
they  pass  a  pole  through  this  breast  strap  and  through 
the  wrist  strap  and  lift  him  by  it,  helplessly  trussed  up, 
to  carry  him  off.  Meanwhile  he  is  by  no  means  suffering 
in  silence. 


Scene  3  Great  Catherine  161 

EDSTASTON  [^gasping'].  You  shall  hear  more  of  this. 
Damn  you,  will  you  untie  me?  I  will  complain  to 
the  ambassador.  I  will  write  to  the  Gazette.  England 
will  blow  your  trumpery  little  fleet  out  of  the  water 
and  sweep  your  tinpot  army  into  Siberia  for  this.  Will 
you  let  me  go.'^  Damn  you!  Curse  you!  What  the 
devil  do  you  mean  by  it?  I'll  —  I'll  —  I'll  —  [he  is 
carried  out  of  hearing']. 

NARYSHKiN  [matching  his  hands  from  Claire^s  face 
with  a  scream,  and  shaking  his  finger  frantically].  Agh ! 
[The  Sergeant,  amazed,  lets  go  her  hands. ~\  She  has 
bitten  me,  the  little  vixen. 

CLAIRE  [spitting  and  imping  her  mouth  disgustedly]. 
How  dare  you  put  your  dirty  paws  on  my  mouth? 
Ugh!    Psha! 

THE  SERGEANT.    Be  mcrciful,  Little  angel  Mother. 

CLAIRE.  Do  not  presume  to  call  me  your  little  angel 
mother.     Where  are  the  police? 

NARYSHKIN.  We  are  the  police  in  St  Petersburg, 
little  spitfire. 

THE  SERGEANT.  God  kuows  wc  havc  no  orders  to 
harm  you,  Little  Mother.  Our  duty  is  done.  You  are 
well  and  strong;  but  I  shall  never  be  the  same  man 
again.  He  is  a  mighty  and  terrible  fighter,  as  stout 
as  a  bear.  He  has  broken  my  sweetbread  with  his 
strong  knees.  God  knows  poor  folk  should  not  be  set 
upon  such  dangerous  adversaries! 

CLAIRE.  Serve  you  right!  Where  have  they  taken 
Captain  Edstaston  to? 

NARYSHKIN  [spitefully].  To  the  Empress,  little 
beauty.  He  has  insulted  the  Empress.  He  will  re- 
ceive a  hundred  and  one  blows  of  the  knout.  [He 
laughs  and  goes  out,  nursing  his  bitten  finger.] 

THE  SERGEANT.  He  will  fccl  ouly  the  first  twenty 
and  he  will  be  mercifully  dead  long  before  the  end, 
little  darhng. 


162  Great  Catherine  Scene  3 

CLAIRE  \_sustained  by  an  invincible  snobbery].  They 
dare  not  touch  an  Enghsh  oflScer.  I  will  go  to  the 
Empress  myself:  she  cannot  know  who  Captain  Eds- 
taston  is  —  who  we  are. 

THE  SERGEANT.  Do  SO  in  the  name  of  the  Holy 
Nicholas,  little  beauty. 

CLAIRE.  Don't  be  impertinent.  How  can  I  get  ad- 
mission to  the  palace? 

THE  SERGEANT.  Everybody  goes  in  and  out  of  the 
palace,  little  love. 

CLAIRE.  But  I  must  get  into  the  Empress's  presence. 
I  must  speak  to  her. 

THE  SERGEANT.  You  shall,  dear  Little  Mother.  You 
shall  give  the  poor  old  Sergeant  a  rouble;  and  the 
blessed  Nicholas  will  make  your  salvation  his  charge. 

CLAIRE  [impetuously'].  I  will  give  you  {she  is  about 
to  say  fifty  roubles,  but  checks  herself  cautiously]  — 
Well:  I  don't  mind  giving  you  two  roubles  if  I  can 
speak  to  the  Empress. 

THE  SERGEANT  \joyfully].  I  praisc  Heaven  for  you, 
Little  Mother.  Come.  [He  leads  the  way  out]  It  was 
the  temptation  of  the  devil  that  led  your  young  man 
to  bruise  my  vitals  and  deprive  me  of  breath.  We 
must  be  merciful  to  one  another's  faults. 


THE  FOURTH  SCENE 

A  triangular  recess  communicating  by  a  heavily  cur- 
tained  arch  with  the  huge  ballroom  of  the  palace.  The 
light  is  subdued  by  red  shades  on  the  candles.  In  the 
wall  adjoining  that  pierced  by  the  arch  is  a  door.  The 
only  piece  of  furniture  is  a  very  handsome  chair  on  the 
arch  side.  In  the  ballroom  they  are  dancing  a  polonaise 
to  the  music  of  a  brass  band. 

Naryshkin  enters  through  the  door,  followed  by  the 
soldiers  carrying  Edstaston,  still  trussed  to  the  pole. 
Exhausted  and  dogged,  he  makes  no  sound. 

NARYSHKIN.  Halt.  Get  that  pole  clear  of  the 
prisoner.  [They  dump  Edstaston  on  the  floor  and 
detach  the  pole.  Naryshkin  stoops  over  him  and  addresses 
him  insultingly!^  Well!  are  you  ready  to  be  tortured? 
This  is  the  Empress's  private  torture  chamber.  Can 
I  do  anything  to  make  you  quite  comfortable?  You 
have  only  to  mention  it. 

EDSTASTON.    Havc  you  any  back  teeth? 

NARYSHKIN  \jsurprised^.     Why? 

EDSTASTON.  His  Majesty  King  George  the  Third 
will  send  for  six  of  them  when  the  news  of  this  reaches 
London;    so  look  out,  damn  your  eyes! 

NARYSHKIN  \_  frightened}.  Oh,  I  assure  you  I  am 
only  obeying  my  orders.  Personally  I  abhor  torture, 
and  would  save  you  if  I  could.  But  the  Empress  is 
proud;  and  what  woman  would  forgive  the  slight  you 
put  upon  her? 

EDSTASTON.    As  I  Said  before:  Damn  your  eyes! 
163 


164  Great  Catherine  Scene  4 

NARYSHKIN  [^almost  in  tears].  Well,  it  isn't  my  fault. 
[To  the  soldiers,  insolently.']  You  know  your  orders? 
You  remember  what  you  have  to  do  when  the  Empress 
gives  you  the  word?     \^The  soldiers  salute  in  assent.] 

Naryshkin  passes  through  the  curtains,  admitting  a 
blare  of  music  and  a  strip  of  the  brilliant  white  candle- 
light from  the  chandeliers  in  the  ballroom  as  he  does  so. 
The  white  light  vanishes  and  the  music  is  muffled  as  the 
curtains  fall  together  behind  him.  Presently  the  band 
stops  abruptly:  and  Naryshkin  comes  back  through  the 
curtains.  He  makes  a  warning  gesture  to  the  soldiers, 
who  stand  at  attention.  Then  he  moves  the  curtain  to 
allow  Catherine  to  enter.  She  is  in  full  Imperial  regalia, 
and  stops  sternly  just  where  she  has  entered.  The  soldiers 
fall  on  their  knees. 

CATHERINE.    Obey  your  orders. 

The  soldiers  seize  Edstaston,  and  throw  him  roughly  at 
the  feet  of  the  Empress. 

CATHERINE  [looMng  dovm  coldly  on  him].  Also  \the 
German  word^,  you  have  put  me  to  the  trouble  of 
sending  for  you  twice.  You  had  better  have  come  the 
first  time. 

EDSTASTON  [exsufflicatc,  and  pettishly  angry].  I 
haven't  come  either  time.  I've  been  carried.  I  call 
it  infernal  impudence. 

CATHERINE.    Take  care  what  you  say. 

EDSTASTON.  No  usc.  I  daresay  you  look  very  ma- 
jestic and  very  handsome;  but  I  can't  see  you;  and 
I  am  not  intimidated.  I  am  an  Enghshman;  and  you 
can  kidnap  me;  but  you  can't  bully  me. 

NARYSHKIN.    Remember  to  whom  you  are  speaking. 

CATHERINE  [violently,  furUms  at  his  intrusion].  Re- 
member that  dogs  should  be  dumb.  [He  shrivels.] 
And  do  you,  Captain,  remember  that  famous  as  I  am 
for  my  clemency,  there  are  limits  to  the  patience  even 
of  an  Empress. 


Scene  4  Great  Catherine  165 

EDSTASTON.  How  is  a  man  to  remember  anything 
when  he  is  trussed  up  in  this  ridiculous  fashion?  I 
can  hardly  breathe.  \_He  makes  a  futile  struggle  to  free 
himself.']  Here:  don't  be  unkind,  your  Majesty:  tell 
these  fellows  to  unstrap  me.  You  know  you  really 
owe  me  an  apology. 

CATHERINE.  You  think  you  can  escape  by  appealing, 
like  Prince  Patiomkin,  to  my  sense  of  humor? 

EDSTASTON.  Scusc  of  humor!  Ho!  Ha,  ha!  I  like 
that.  Would  anybody  with  a  sense  of  humor  make  a 
guy  of  a  man  like  this,  and  then  expect  him  to  take  it 
seriously?    I  say:  do  tell  them  to  loosen  these  straps. 

CATHERINE  \_seating  herself].    Why  should  I,  pray? 

EDSTASTON.  Why!  Why!  Why,  because  they're 
hurting  me. 

CATHERINE.  Pcoplc  somctimcs  learn  through  suffer- 
ing.    Manners,  for  instance. 

EDSTASTON.  Oh,  wcll,  of  coursc,  if  you're  an  ill- 
natured  woman,  hurting  me  on  purpose,  I  have  nothing 
more  to  say. 

CATHERINE.  A  mouarch,  sir,  has  sometimes  to  em- 
ploy a  necessary  and  salutary  severity  — 

EDSTASTON  [interrupting  her  petulantly].  Quack! 
quack!  quack! 

CATHERINE .     Donncrwctter ! 

EDSTASTON  [continuing  recklessly].  This  isn't  se- 
verity: it's  tomfoolery.  And  if  you  think  it's  reform- 
ing my  character  or  teaching  me  anything,  you're 
mistaken.  It  may  be  a  satisfaction  to  you;  but 
if  it  is,  all  I  can  say  is  that  it's  not  an  amiable 
satisfaction. 

CATHERINE  [tumiug  suddenly  and  halefully  on  Narysh- 
kin].     What  are  you  grinning  at? 

NARYSHKiN  [falling  on  his  knees  in  terror].  Be 
merciful.  Little  Mother.    My  heart  is  in  my  mouth. 

CATHERINE.    YouT  heart  and  your  mouth  will  be  in 


166  Great  Catherine  Scene  4 

two  separate  parts  of  your  body  if  you  again  forget 
in  whose  presence  you  stand.  Go.  And  take  your 
men  with  you.  [Naryshkin  crawls  to  the  door.  The 
soldiers  rise.']  Stop.  Roll  that  [indicating  Edstaston] 
nearer.  [The  soldiers  obey.]  Not  so  close.  Did  I  ask 
you  for  a  footstool.?  [She  pushes  Edstaston  away  uoith 
her  foot.] 

EDSTASTON  [urith  a  sudden  squeal].  Agh!!!  I  must 
really  ask  your  Majesty  not  to  put  the  point  of  your 
Imperial  toe  between  my  ribs.    I  am  ticklesome. 

CATHERINE.  Indeed?  All  the  more  reason  for  you 
to  treat  me  with  respect.  Captain.  [To  the  others.] 
Begone.  How  many  times  must  I  give  an  order  before 
it  is  obeyed  .f^ 

NARYSHKiN.  Little  Mother:  they  have  brought  some 
instruments  of  torture.    Will  they  be  needed.'* 

CATHERINE  [indignantly].  How  dare  you  name  such 
abominations  to  a  Liberal  Empress.?^  You  will  always 
be  a  savage  and  a  fool,  Naryshkin.  These  relics  of 
barbarism  are  buried,  thank  God,  in  the  grave  of  Peter 
the  Great.  My  methods  are  more  civilized.  [She 
extends  her  toe  towards  Edstaston^ s  ribs.] 

EDSTASTON  [shrieking  hysterically].  Yagh!  Ah! 
[Furiously.]  If  your  Majesty  does  that  again  I  will 
write  to  the  London  Gazette. 

CATHERINE  [to  the  soldicrs].  Leave  us.  Quick!  do 
you  hear?  Five  thousand  blows  of  the  stick  for  the 
soldier  who  is  in  the  room  when  I  speak  next.  [The 
soldiers  rush  out.]  Naryshkin:  are  you  waiting  to  be 
knouted?    [Naryshkin  backs  out  hastily.] 

Catherine  and  Edstaston  are  now  alone.  Catherine  has 
in  her  hand  a  sceptre  or  baton  of  gold.  Wrapped  round 
it  is  a  new  pamphlety  in  French^  entitled  UHomme  aux 
Quarante  J^us.  She  calmly  unrolls  this  and  begins  to 
read  it  at  her  ease  as  if  she  were  quite  alone.  Several 
seconds  elapse  in  dead  silence.     She  becomes  more  and 


Scene  4  Great  Catherine  167 

mcyre  absorbed  in  the  pamphlet,  and  more  and  more 
amused  by  it. 

CATHERINE  [^greatly  pleased  by  a  passage,  and  turn- 
ing over  the  leaf 2-    Ausgezeichnet ! 

EDSTASTON.     Ahem! 

Silence.     Catherine  reads  on, 

CATHERINE.     Wie  komisch! 

EDSTASTON.    Ahem!  ahem! 

Silence. 

CATHERINE  \_soliloquizing  enthusiastically'].  What  a 
wonderful  author  is  Monsieur  Voltaire!  How  lucidly 
he  exposes  the  folly  of  this  crazy  plan  for  raising  the 
entire  revenue  of  the  country  from  a  single  tax  on 
land!  how  he  withers  it  with  his  irony!  how  he  makes 
you  laugh  whilst  he  is  convincing  you!  how  sure  one 
feels  that  the  proposal  is  killed  by  his  wit  and  economic 
penetration :  killed  never  to  be  mentioned  again  among 
educated  people! 

EDSTASTON.  For  Hcavcn's  sake,  Madam,  do  you  in- 
tend to  leave  me  tied  up  like  this  while  you  discuss 
the  blasphemies  of  that  abominable  infidel  .f*  Agh!! 
{_She  has  again  applied  her  toe.~\    Oh !     Oo ! 

CATHERINE  [calmly~].  Do  I  understand  you  to  say 
that  Monsieur  Voltaire  is  a  great  philanthropist  and 
a  great  philosopher  as  well  as  the  wittiest  man  in 
Europe? 

EDSTASTON.  Certainly  not.  I  say  that  his  books 
ought  to  be  burnt  by  the  common  hangman  [her  toe 
touches  his  ribs].  Yagh!  Oh  don't.  I  shall  faint.  I 
can't  bear  it. 

CATHERINE.  Havc  you  changed  your  opinion  of 
Monsieur  Voltaire? 

EDSTASTON.  But  you  cau't  expect  me  as  a  member 
of  the  Church  of  England  [she  tickles  him]  —  Agh ! 
Ow!  Oh  Lord!  he  is  anything  you  like.  He  is  a 
philanthropist,  a  philosopher,  a  beauty:    he  ought  to 


168  Great  Catherine  Scene  4 

have  a  statue,  damn  him!  [^she  tickles  him'].  No! 
bless  him!  save  him  victorious,  happy  and  glorious! 
Oh,  let  eternal  honors  crown  his  name :  Voltaire  thrice 
worthy  on  the  rolls  of  fame!  \_Exhausted.~\  Now 
will  you  let  me  up?  And  look  here!  I  can  see  your 
ankles  when  you  tickle  me:   it's  not  ladylike. 

CATHERINE  [sticking  out  her  toe  and  admiring  it 
critically}.    Is  the  spectacle  so  disagreeable? 

EDSTASTON.  It's  agreeable  enough;  only  [with  in- 
tense expression]  for  heaven's  sake  don't  touch  me  in 
the  ribs. 

CATHERINE  [putting  aside  the  pamphlet].  Captain 
Edstaston,  why  did  you  refuse  to  come  when  I  sent 
for  you? 

EDSTASTON.    Madam,  I  cannot  talk  tied  up  like  this. 

CATHERINE.  Do  you  stiU  admire  me  as  much  as  you 
did  this  morning? 

EDSTASTON.  How  cau  I  possibly  tell  when  I  can't  see 
you?  Let  me  get  up  and  look.  I  can't  see  anything 
now  except  my  toes  and  yours. 

CATHERINE.  Do  you  stiU  intend  to  write  to  the 
London  Gazette  about  me? 

EDSTASTON.  Not  if  you  will  loosen  these  straps. 
Quick:   loosen  me.    I'm  fainting. 

CATHERINE.     I  don't  think  you  are  [tickling  him], 

EDSTASTON.    Agh!    Cat! 

CATHERINE.     What  [she  tickles  him  again]. 

EDSTASTON  [with  a  shriek].     No:  angel,  angel! 

CATHERINE  [tenderly].     Geliebter! 

EDSTASTON.  I  dou't  know  a  word  of  German;  but 
that  sounded  kind.  [Becoming  hysterical.]  Little 
Mother,  beautiful  little  darling  angel  mother:  don't 
be  cruel :  untie  me.  Oh,  I  beg  and  implore  you.  Don't 
be  unkind.     I  shall  go  mad. 

CATHERINE.  You  are  expected  to  go  mad  with  love 
when  an  Empress  deigns  to  interest  herself  in  you. 


Secne  4  Great  Catherine  169 

When  an  Empress  allows  you  to  see  her  foot  you  should 
kiss  it.    Captain  Edstaston,  you  are  a  booby. 

EDSTASTON  [indignantly].  I  am  nothing  of  the  kind. 
I  have  been  mentioned  in  dispatches  as  a  highly  intel- 
ligent officer.  And  let  me  warn  your  Majesty  that  I 
am  not  so  helpless  as  you  think.  The  English  Ambas- 
sador is  in  that  ballroom.  A  shout  from  me  will  bring 
him  to  my  side;  and  then  where  will  your  Majesty  be? 

CATHERINE.  I  should  like  to  see  the  English  Ambas- 
sador or  anyone  else  pass  through  that  curtain  against 
my  orders.  It  might  be  a  stone  wall  ten  feet  thick. 
Shout  your  loudest.  Sob.  Curse.  Scream.  Yell  [she 
tickles  him  unmercifully'], 

EDSTASTON  [frantically].  Ahowyou!!!!  Agh!  oh! 
Stop!  Oh  Lord!  Ya-a-a-ah!  [A  tumult  in  the  ball- 
room responds  to  his  cries.] 

VOICES  FROM  THE  BALLROOM.  Stand  back.  You 
cannot  pass.  Hold  her  back  there.  The  Empress's 
orders.  It  is  out  of  the  question.  No,  little  darling, 
not  in  there.  Nobody  is  allowed  in  there.  You  will  be 
sent  to  Siberia.  Don't  let  her  through  there,  on  your 
life.  Drag  her  back.  You  will  be  knouted.  It  is 
hopeless,  Mademoiselle:  you  must  obey  orders.  Guard 
there!     Send  some  men  to  hold  her. 

claire's  VOICE.  Let  me  go.  They  are  torturing 
Charles  in  there.  I  vdll  go.  How  can  you  all  dance 
as  if  nothing  was  happening?  Let  me  go,  I  tell  you. 
Let  —  me  —  go.  [She  dashes  through  the  curtain.  No 
one  dares  follow  her.] 

CATHERINE  [rising  in  ujrath].    How  dare  you? 

CLAIRE  [recklessly].  Oh,  dare  your  grandmother! 
Where  is  my  Charles?    What  are  they  doing  to  him? 

EDSTASTON  [shouting].  Claire,  loosen  these  straps, 
in  Heaven's  name.     Quick. 

CLAIRE  [seeing  him  and  throwing  herself  on  her  knees 
at  his  side].    Oh,  how  dare  they  tie  you  up  like  that! 


170  Great  Catherine  Scene  4 

[To  Catherine. 2  You  wicked  wretch!  You  Russian 
savage!  \^She  pounces  on  the  straps,  and  begins  un- 
buckling  them.~\ 

CATHERINE  [conqueHng  herself  with  a  mighty  effort']. 
Now  self-control.  Self-control,  Catherine.  Philosophy. 
Europe  is  looking  on.    \_She  forces  herself  to  sit  downr\ 

EDSTASTON.  Steady,  dcarcst:  it  is  the  Empress.  Call 
her  your  Imperial  Majesty.  Call  her  Star  of  the 
North,  Little  Mother,  Little  Darling:  that's  what  she 
likes;  but  get  the  straps  off. 

CLAIRE.  Keep  quiet,  dear:  I  cannot  get  them  off  if 
you  move. 

CATHERINE  {colmly].  Kccp  quite  still.  Captain  \_she 
tickles  him.'] 

EDSTASTON.    Ow!    Agh!    Ahowyow! 

CLAIRE  [^stopping  dead  in  the  act  of  unbuckling  the 
straps  and  turning  sick  with  jealousy  as  she  grasps  the 
situation].  Was  that  what  I  thought  was  your  being 
tortured? 

CATHERINE  [urbanely].  That  is  the  favorite  torture 
of  Catherine  the  Second,  Mademoiselle.  I  think  the 
Captain  enjoys  it  very  much. 

CLAIRE.  Then  he  can  have  as  much  more  of  it  as 
he  wants.    I  am  sorry  I  intruded.    [She  rises  to  go^] 

EDSTASTON  [cotchiug  her  train  in  his  teeth  and  holding 
on  like  a  bull-dog].  Don't  go.  Don't  leave  me  in  this 
horrible  state.  Loosen  me.  [This  is  what  he  is  saying: 
but  as  he  says  it  with  the  train  in  his  mouth  it  is  not  very 
intelligible.] 

CLAIRE.  Let  go.  You  are  undignified  and  ridiculous 
enough  yourself  without  making  me  ridiculous.  [She 
snatches  her  train  away^ 

EDSTASTON.  Ow!  You'vc  nearly  pulled  my  teeth 
out:  you're  worse  than  the  Star  of  the  North.  [To 
Catherine.]  Darling  Little  Mother:  you  have  a  kind 
heart,   the   kindest   in   Europe.     Have   pity.     Have 


Scene  4  Great  Catherine  171 

mercy.  I  love  you.  [Claire  bursts  into  tearsJ}  Release 
me. 

CATHERINE.  Well,  just  to  show  you  how  much 
kinder  a  Russian  savage  can  be  than  an  Enghsh  one 
(though  I  am  sorry  to  say  I  am  a  German)  here  goes! 
[_She  stoops  to  loosen  the  straps."] 

CLAIRE  [jealously].  You  needn't  trouble,  thank  you. 
[She  pounces  on  the  straps:  and  the  two  set  Edstaston 
free  between  them.']  Now  get  up,  please;  and  conduct 
yourself  with  some  dignity  if  you  are  not  utterly 
demoralized. 

EDSTASTON.  Dignity!  Ow!  I  can't.  I'm  stiff  all 
over.  I  shall  never  be  able  to  stand  up  again.  Oh 
Lord!  how  it  hurts!  [They  seize  him  by  the  shoulders 
and  drag  him  up.]  Yah!  Agh!  Wow!  Oh!  Mmmmmm! 
Oh,  Little  Angel  Mother,  don't  ever  do  this  to  a  man 
again.  Knout  him;  kill  him;  roast  him;  baste  him; 
head,  hang,  and  quarter  him;  but  don't  tie  him  up 
like  that  and  tickle  him. 

CATHERINE.  Your  youug  lady  still  seems  to  think 
that  you  enjoyed  it. 

CLAIRE.  I  know  what  I  think.  I  will  never  speak 
to  him  again.  Your  Majesty  can  keep  him,  as  far  as 
I  am  concerned. 

CATHERINE.  I  would  uot  deprive  you  of  him  for 
worlds;  though  really  I  think  he's  rather  a  darling 
[she  pats  his  cheek]. 

CLAIRE  [snorting].     So  I  see,  indeed. 

EDSTASTON.  Don't  be  angry,  dearest:  in  this  country 
everybody's  a  darling.  I'll  prove  it  to  you.  [To 
Catherine.]  Will  your  Majesty  be  good  enough  to  call 
Prince  Patiomkin? 

CATHERINE  [surprised  into  haughtiness].     Why? 

EDSTASTON.     To  oblige  me. 

Catherine  laughs  good-humoredly  and  goes  to  the  cur- 
tains  and  opens  them.    The  band  strikes  up  a  Redowa. 


172  Great  Catherine  Scene  4 

CATHERINE  {^Calling  imperiously}.  Patiomkin!  [The 
music  stops  suddenly. ~\  Here!  To  me!  Go  on  with 
your  music  there,  you  fools.    [The  Redowa  is  resumed.} 

The  sergeant  rushes  from  the  ballroom  to  relieve  the 
Empress  of  the  curtain,  Patiomkin  comes  in  dancing 
loith  Varinka. 

CATHERINE  [to  PatiomMn}.  The  English  captain 
wants  you,  little  darling. 

Catherine  resumes  her  seat  as  Patiomkin  intimates  by 
a  grotesque  bow  that  he  is  at  Edstaston^s  service.  Varinka 
passes  behind  Edstaston  and  Claire,  and  posts  herself  on 
Claire*s  right. 

EDSTASTON.  Precisely.  [To  Claire.  ]  You  observe, 
my  love:  "little  darling."  Well,  if  her  Majesty  calls 
him  a  darhng,  is  it  my  fault  that  she  calls  me  one 
too? 

CLAIRE.  I  don't  care:  I  don't  think  you  ought  to 
have  done  it.    I  am  very  angry  and  offended. 

EDSTASTON.  They  tied  me  up,  dear.  I  couldn't  help 
it.     I  fought  for  all  I  was  worth. 

THE  SERGEANT  [at  the  curtains}.  He  fought  with  the 
strength  of  lions  and  bears.  God  knows  I  shall  carry 
a  broken  sweetbread  to  my  grave. 

EDSTASTON.  You  Can't  mean  to  throw  me  over,  Claire. 
[Urgently.}    Claire.     Claire. 

VARINKA  [in  a  transport  of  sympathetic  emotion,  plead- 
ing with  clasped  hands  to  Claire}.  Oh,  sweet  little 
angel  lamb,  he  loves  you:  it  shines  in  his  darling  eyes. 
Pardon  him,  pardon  him. 

PATIOMKIN  [rushing  from  the  Empresses  side  to  Claire 
and  falling  on  his  knees  to  her}.  Pardon  him,  pardon 
him,  Httle  cherub!  little  wild  duck!  little  star!  little 
glory !  little  jewel  in  the  crown  of  heaven ! 

CLAIRE.     This  is  perfectly  ridiculous. 

VARINKA  [kneeling  to  her}.  Pardon  him,  pardon  him, 
Uttle  delight,  little  sleeper  in  a  rosy  cradle. 


Scene  4  Great  Catherine  173 

CLAIRE.    I'll  do  anything  if  you'll  only  let  me  alone. 

THE  SERGEANT  [^kneeling  to  her].  Pardon  him,  pardon 
him,  lest  the  mighty  man  bring  his  whip  to  you.  God 
knows  we  all  need  pardon! 

CLAIRE  \^at  the  top  of  her  voice"].  I  pardon  him!  I 
pardon  him! 

PATiOMKiN  [^springing  up  joyfully  and  going  behind 
Claire,  whom  he  raises  in  his  arms].  Embrace  her, 
victor  of  Bunker's  Hill.    Kiss  her  till  she  swoons. 

THE  SERGEANT.  Rcceive  her  in  the  name  of  the  holy 
Nicholas. 

VARiNKA.  She  begs  you  for  a  thousand  dear  little 
kisses  all  over  her  body. 

CLAIRE  [vehemently].  I  do  not.  {Patiomkin  throws 
her  into  Edstaston^s  arms.]  Oh!  [The  pair,  awkward 
and  shamefaced,  recoil  from  one  another,  and  remain 
utterly  inexpressive.] 

CATHERINE  [pushing  Edstaston  towards  Claire].  There 
is  no  help  for  it.  Captain.    This  is  Russia,  not  England. 

EDSTASTON  [plucking  up  some  geniality,  and  kissing 
Claire  ceremoniously  on  the  brow].    I  have  no  objection. 

VARINKA.  [disgusted].  Only  one  kiss!  and  on  the 
forehead!  Fish.  See  how  I  kiss,  though  it  is  only  my 
horribly  ugly  old  uncle  [she  throws  her  arms  round 
Patiomkin' s  neck  and  covers  his  face  with  kisses]. 

THE  SERGEANT  [moccd  to  tears].  Sainted  Nicholas: 
bless  your  lambs ! 

CATHERINE.  Do  you  woudcr  now  that  I  love  Russia 
as  I  love  no  other  place  on  earth? 

NARYSHKiN  [appearing  at  the  door].  Majesty:  the 
model  for  the  new  museum  has  arrived. 

CATHERINE  [rising  eagerly  and  making  for  the  cur- 
tains]. Let  us  go.  I  can  think  of  nothing  but  my 
museum.  [In  the  archway  she  stops  and  turns  to  Eds- 
taston, who  has  hurried  to  lift  the  curtain  for  her.]  Cap- 
tain, I  wish  you  every  happiness  that  your  little  angel 


^  ^exclaiming  simul- 
taneously]. 


174  Great  Catherine  Scene  4 

can  bring  you.     [^For  his  ear  alone."]     I  could  have 
brought  you  more;  but  you  did  not  think  so.    Farewell. 

EDSTASTON  [kissing  her  handy  which,  instead  of  re- 
leasing, he  holds  caressingly  and  rather  patronizingly  in 
his  oum].  I  feel  your  Majesty's  kindness  so  much  that 
I  really  cannot  leave  you  without  a  word  of  plain 
wholesome  English  advice. 

CATHERINE  [^snotching  her  hand 
away  and  hounding  forward  as  if 
he  had  touched  her  with  a  spur]. 
Advice ! ! ! 

PATiOMKiN.  Madman:  take 
care! 

NARYSHKiN.  Advisc  the  Em- 
press ! ! 

THE  SERGEANT.  Sainted  Nicho- 
las! 

VARiNKA.  Hoo  hoo!  [a  stifled 
splutter  of  laughter]. 

EDSTASTON  [_  following  the  Empress  and  resuming 
kindly  hut  judicially].  After  all,  though  your  Majesty 
is  of  course  a  great  queen,  yet  when  all  is  said,  I  am 
a  man;  and  your  Majesty  is  only  a  woman. 

CATHERINE.     Only  a  wo —  [jshe  chokes]. 

EDSTASTON  \_continuing].  Believe  me,  this  Russian 
extravagance  will  not  do.  I  appreciate  as  much  as 
any  man  the  warmth  of  heart  that  prompts  it;  but 
it  is  overdone :  it  is  hardly  in  the  best  taste :  it  is  — 
really  I  must  say  it  —  it  is  not  proper. 

CATHERINE  [ironically,  in  German].     So! 

EDSTASTON.  Not  that  I  cannot  make  allowances. 
Your  Majesty  has,  I  know,  been  unfortunate  in  your 
experience  as  a  married  woman  — 

CATHERINE  [furious].     Allc  Wetter!!! 

EDSTASTON  [sentimentally].  Don't  say  that.  Don't 
think  of  him  in  that  way.    After  all,  he  was  your  hus- 


Scene  4  Great  Catherine  175 

band;  and  whatever  his  faults  may  have  been,  it  is 
not  for  you  to  think  unkindly  of  him. 

CATHERINE  [^almost  hursting~\.    I  shall  forget  myself. 

EDSTASTON.  Come!  I  am  sure  he  really  loved  you; 
and  you  truly  loved  him. 

CATHERINE  [controUing  herself  with  a  supreme  effort]. 
No,  Catherine.    What  would  Voltaire  say.? 

EDSTASTON.  Oh,  never  mind  that  vile  scoffer.  Set 
an  example  to  Europe,  Madam,  by  doing  what  I  am 
going  to  do.  Marry  again.  Marry  some  good  man 
who  will  be  a  strength  and  support  to  your  old  age. 

CATHERINE.  My  old  — -  \_she  again  becomes  speech- 
less']. 

EDSTASTON.  Ycsi  wc  must  all  grow  old,  even  the 
handsomest  of  us. 

CATHERINE  [sinldng  into  her  chair  vnih  a  gasp]. 
Thank  you. 

EDSTASTON.  You  wiU  thank  me  more  when  you  see 
your  little  ones  round  your  knee,  and  your  man  there 
by  the  fireside  in  the  winter  evenings  —  by  the  way, 
I  forgot  that  you  have  no  fireside  here  in  spite  of  the 
coldness  of  the  climate;   so  shall  I  say  by  the  stove? 

CATHERINE.  Certainly,  if  you  wish.  The  stove  by 
all  means. 

EDSTASTON  [impulsively].  Ah,  Madam,  abolish  the 
stove:  believe  me,  there  is  nothing  like  the  good  old 
open  grate.  Home !  duty !  happiness !  they  all  mean 
the  same  thing;  and  they  all  flourish  best  on  the  draw- 
ingroom  hearthrug.  \_Turning  to  Claire.]  And  now, 
my  love,  we  must  not  detain  the  Queen :  she  is  anxious 
to  inspect  the  model  of  her  museum,  to  which  I  am 
sure  we  wish  every  success. 

CLAIRE  [^coldly].     I  am  not  detaining  her. 

EDSTASTON.  Well,  goodbyc  {wringing  Patiomkin^s 
hand]y  goo-oo-oodbye.  Prince:  come  and  see  us  if  ever 
you   visit   England.      Spire   View,   Deepdene,   Little 


176  Great  Catherine  Scene  4 

Mugford,  Devon,  will  always  find  me.  [To  Varinka, 
hissing  her  hand.^  Goodbye,  Mademoiselle:  goodbye, 
Little  Mother,  if  I  may  call  you  that  just  once.  [Va- 
rinka puts  up  her  face  to  he  hissed.']  Eh?  No,  no,  no, 
no:  you  don't  mean  that,  you  know.  Naughty!  [To 
the  Sergeant^  Goodbye,  my  friend.  You  will  drink 
our  healths  with  this  [tipping  hiin]. 

THE  SEBGEANT.  The  blcsscd  Nicholas  will  multiply 
your  fruits,  Little  Father. 

EDSTASTON.  Goodbye,  goodbye,  goodbye,  goodbye, 
goodbye,  goodbye. 

He  goes  out  backwards,  howing,  vnih  Claire  curtseying, 
having  been  listened  to  in  utter  dumbfoundedness  by 
Patiomkin  and  Naryshkin,  in  childlike  awe  by  Varinka, 
and  with  quite  inexpressible  feelings  by  Catherine. 
When  he  is  out  of  sight  she  rises  vnih  clinched  fists  and 
raises  her  arms  and  her  closed  eyes  to  Heaven.  Patiom- 
kin, rousing  himself  from  his  stupor  of  amazement, 
springs  to  her  like  a  tiger,  and  throws  himself  at  her 
feet. 

PATIOMKIN.  What  shall  I  do  to  him  for  you?  Skin 
him  alive?  Cut  off  his  eyeUds  and  stand  him  in  the 
sun?    Tear  his  tongue  out?    What  shall  it  be? 

CATHERINE  [opening  her  eyes'].  Nothing.  But  oh, 
if  I  could  only  have  had  him  for  my  —  for  my  —  for 
my  — 

PATIOMKIN  [in  a  growl  of  jealousy].    For  your  lover? 

CATHERINE  [vdth  an  inej^able  smile].  No:  for  my 
museum. 


OTLAHERTY  V.  C. 
XXVIII 


177 


It  may  surprise  some  people  to  learn  that  in  1915 
this  little  play  was  a  recruiting  poster  in  disguise.  The 
British  officer  seldom  likes  Irish  soldiers;  but  he 
always  tries  to  have  a  certain  proportion  of  them  in 
his  battalion,  because,  partly  from  a  want  of  common 
sense  which  leads  them  to  value  their  lives  less  than 
Englishmen  do  (lives  are  really  less  worth  living  in  a 
poor  country),  and  partly  because  even  the  most 
cowardly  Irishman  feels  obliged  to  outdo  an  English- 
man in  bravery  if  possible,  and  at  least  to  set  a  perilous 
pace  for  him,  Irish  soldiers  give  impetus  to  those 
military  operations  which  require  for  their  spirited 
execution  more  devilment  than  prudence. 

Unfortunately,  Irish  recruiting  was  badly  bungled  in 
1915.  The  Irish  were  for  the  most  part  Roman  Catholics 
and  loyal  Irishmen,  which  means  that  from  the  Eng- 
lish point  of  view  they  were  heretics  and  rebels.  But 
they  were  willing  enough  to  go  soldiering  on  the  side 
of  France  and  see  the  world  outside  Ireland,  which  is 
a  dull  place  to  live  in.  It  was  quite  easy  to  enlist 
them  by  approaching  them  from  their  own  point  of 
view.  But  the  War  Office  insisted  on  approaching 
them  from  the  point  of  view  of  Dublin  Castle.  They 
were  discouraged  and  repulsed  by  refusals  to  give 
commissions  to  Roman  Catholic  officers,  or  to  allow 
distinct  Irish  units  to  be  formed.  To  attract  them, 
the  walls  were  covered  with  placards  headed  Remember 
Belgium.  The  folly  of  asking  an  Irishman  to  re- 
member anything  when  you  want  him  to  fight  for 
England  was  apparent  to  everyone  outside  the  Castle: 
Forget  and  Forgive  would  have  been  more  to  the 
point.  Remembering  Belgium  and  its  broken  treaty 
led  Irishmen  to  remember  Limerick  and  its  broken 
treaty;    and  the  recruiting  ended  in  a  rebellion,  in 

179 


180  .       OTlaherty  V.  C. 

suppressing  which  the  British  artillery  quite  unneces- 
sarily reduced  the  centre  of  Dublin  to  ruins,  and  the 
British  commanders  killed  their  leading  prisoners  of 
war  in  cold  blood  morning  after  morning  with  an 
effect  of  long-drawn-out  ferocity.  Really  it  was  only 
the  usual  childish  petulance  in  which  John  Bull  does 
things  in  a  week  that  disgrace  him  for  a  century, 
though  he  soon  recovers  his  good  humor,  and  cannot 
understand  why  the  survivors  of  his  wrath  do  not  feel 
as  jolly  with  him  as  he  does  with  them.  On  the  smoul- 
dering ruins  of  Dublin  the  appeals  to  remember  Louvain 
were  presently  supplemented  by  a  fresh  appeal.  Irish- 
men, DO  YOU  WISH  TO  HAVE  THE  HORRORS  OF  WaR 
BROUGHT  TO  YOUR  OWN  HeARTHS  AND  HoMES?  Dub- 
lin laughed  sourly. 

As  for  me  I  addressed  myself  quite  simply  to  the 
business  of  obtaining  recruits.  I  knew  by  personal  ex- 
perience and  observation  what  anyone  might  have 
inferred  from  the  records  of  Irish  emigration,  that  all 
an  Irishman's  hopes  and  ambitions  turn  on  his  oppor- 
tunities of  getting  out  of  Ireland.  Stimulate  his  loy- 
alty, and  he  will  stay  in  Ireland  and  die  for  her;  for, 
incomprehensible  as  it  seems  to  an  Englishman,  Irish 
patriotism  does  not  take  the  form  of  devotion  to  Eng- 
land and  England's  king.  Appeal  to  his  discontent, 
his  deadly  boredom,  his  thwarted  curiosity  and  desire 
for  change  and  adventure,  and,  to  escape  from  Ireland, 
he  will  go  abroad  to  risk  his  life  for  France,  for  the 
Papal  States,  for  secession  in  America,  and  even,  if  no 
better  may  be,  for  England.  Knowing  that  the  ig- 
norance and  insularity  of  the  Irishman  is  a  danger  to 
himself  and  to  his  neighbors,  I  had  no  scruple  in 
making  that  appeal  when  there  was  something  for 
him  to  fight  which  the  whole  world  had  to  fight  unless 
it  meant  to  come  under  the  jack  boot  of  the  German 
version  of  Dublin  Castle. 


OTlaherty  V.  C.  181 

There  was  another  consideration,  unmentionable  by 
the  recruiting  sergeants  and  war  orators,  which  must 
nevertheless  have  helped  them  powerfully  in  procuring 
soldiers  by  voluntary  enlistment.  The  happy  home 
of  the  idealist  may  become  common  under  millennial 
conditions.  It  is  not  common  at  present.  No  one 
will  ever  know  how  many  men  joined  the  army  in 
1914  and  1915  to  escape  from  tyrants  and  taskmasters, 
termagants  and  shrews,  none  of  whom  are  any  the  less 
irksome  when  they  happen  by  ill-luck  to  be  also  our 
fathers,  our  mothers,  our  wives  and  our  children.  Even 
at  their  amiablest,  a  holiday  from  them  may  be  a 
tempting  change  for  all  parties.  That  is  why  I  did 
not  endow  O'Flaherty  V.C.  with  an  ideal  Irish  colleen 
for  his  sweetheart,  and  gave  him  for  his  mother  a 
Volumnia  of  the  potato  patch  rather  than  a  affec- 
tionate parent  from  whom  he  could  not  so  easily  have 
torn  himself  away. 

I  need  hardly  say  that  a  play  thus  carefully  adapted 
to  its  purpose  was  voted  utterly  inadmissible;  and  in 
due  course  the  British  Government,  frightened  out  of 
its  wits  for  the  moment  by  the  rout  of  the  Fifth  Army, 
ordained  Irish  Conscription,  and  then  did  not  dare 
to  go  through  with  it.  I  still  think  my  own  line  was 
the  more  businesslike.  But  during  the  war  everyone 
except  the  soldiers  at  the  front  imagined  that  nothing 
but  an  extreme  assertion  of  our  most  passionate 
prejudices,  without  the  smallest  regard  to  their  effect 
on  others,  could  win  the  war.  Finally  the  British 
blockade  won  the  war;  but  the  wonder  is  that  the 
British  blockhead  did  not  lose  it.  I  suppose  the 
enemy  was  no  wiser.  War  is  not  a  sharpener  of  wits; 
and  I  am  afraid  I  gave  great  offence  by  keeping  my 
head  in  this  matter  of  Irish  recruiting.  What  can  I 
do  but  apologize,  and  publish  the  play  now  that  it  can 
no  longer  do  any  good? 


O'FLAHERTY  V.  C. 

At  the  door  of  an  Irish  country  house  in  a  park.  Fine, 
summer  weather;  the  summer  of  1915.  The  porch, 
painted  white ,  projects  into  the  drive:  hut  the  door  is  at 
the  side  and  the  front  has  a  window.  The  porch  faces 
east:  and  the  door  is  in  the  north  side  of  it.  On  the  south 
side  is  a  tree  in  which  a  thrush  is  singing.  Under  the 
window  is  a  garden  seat  with  an  iron  chair  at  each  end  of 
it. 

The  last  four  bars  of  God  Save  the  King  are  heard  in 
the  distance,  followed  by  three  cheers.  Then  the  band 
strikes  up  It's  a  Long  Way  to  Tipperary  and  recedes 
until  it  is  out  of  hearing. 

Private  0' Flaherty  V.C.  comes  wearily  southward 
along  the  drive,  and  falls  exhausted  into  the  garden  seat. 
The  thrush  utters  a  note  of  alarm  and  flies  away.  The 
tramp  of  a  horse  is  heard, 

A  gentleman's  voice.  Tim!  Hi!  Tim!  [^He  is 
heard  dismounting.^ 

A  laborer's  \oice.    Yes,  your  honor. 

THE  gentleman's  VOICE.  Take  this  horse  to  the 
stables,  will  you? 

A  laborer's  voice.  Right,  your  honor.  Yup  there. 
Gwan  now.    Gwan.    [^The  horse  is  led  away."] 

General  Sir  Pearce  Madigan,  an  elderly  baronet  in 
khaki,  beaming  with  enthusiasm,  arrives.  0'' Flaherty 
rises  and  stands  at  attention. 

SIR  PEARCE.    No,  no,  O'Flaherty.  none  of  that  now. 

183 


184  O'Flaherty  V.  C. 

You're  off  duty.  Remember  that  though  I  am  a 
general  of  forty  years  service,  that  httle  Cross  of 
yours  gives  you  a  higher  rank  in  the  roll  of  glory  than 
I  can  pretend  to. 

o'flaherty  [relaxing}.  I'm  thankful  to  you.  Sir 
Pearce;  but  I  wouldn't  have  anyone  think  that  the 
baronet  of  my  native  place  would  let  a  common  soldier 
like  me  sit  down  in  his  presence  without  leave. 

SIR  PEABCE.  Well,  you're  not  a  common  soldier, 
O'Flaherty:  you're  a  very  uncommon  one;  and  I'm 
proud  to  have  you  for  my  guest  here  today. 

o'flaherty.  Sure  I  know,  sir.  You  have  to  put 
up  with  a  lot  from  the  like  of  me  for  the  sake  of  the  re- 
cruiting. All  the  quality  shakes  hands  with  me  and 
says  they're  proud  to  know  me,  just  the  way  the  king 
said  when  he  pinned  the  Cross  on  me.  And  it's  as 
true  as  I'm  standing  here,  sir,  the  queen  said  to  me, 
"I  hear  you  were  born  on  the  estate  of  General  Madi- 
gan,"  she  says;  "and  the  General  himself  tells  me 
you  were  always  a  fine  young  fellow."  "Bedad, 
Mam,"  I  says  to  her,  *'if  the  General  knew  all  the 
rabbits  I  snared  on  him,  and  all  the  salmon  I  snatched 
on  him,  and  all  the  cows  I  milked  on  him,  he'd  think 
me  the  finest  ornament  for  the  county  jail  he  ever 
sent  there  for  poaching." 

SIR  PEARCE  [laughing].  You're  welcome  to  them 
all,  my  lad.  Come  [he  makes  him  sit  down  again  on 
the  garden  seat]^-  sit  down  and  enjoy  your  holiday 
[he  sits  down  on  one  of  the  iron  chairs;  the  one  at  the 
doorless  side  of  the  porch"]. 

o'flaherty.  Holiday,  is  it.^  I'd  give  five  shilHngs 
to  be  back  in  the  trenches  for  the  sake  of  a  little  rest 
and  quiet.  I  never  knew  what  hard  work  was  till  I 
took  to  recruiting.  What  with  the  standing  on  my 
legs  all  day,  and  the  shaking  hands,  and  the  making 
speeches,  and  —  what's  worse  —  the  listening  to  them 


OTlaherty  V.  C.  185 

and  the  calling  for  cheers  for  king  and  country,  and 
the  saluting  the  flag  till  I'm  stiff  with  it,  and  the  listen- 
ing to  them  playing  God  Save  the  King  and  Tip- 
perary,  and  the  trying  to  make  my  eyes  look  moist 
like  a  man  in  a  picture  book,  I'm  that  bet  that  I  hardly 
get  a  wink  of  sleep.  I  give  you  my  word,  Sir  Pearce, 
that  I  never  heard  the  tune  of  Tipperary  in  my  life 
till  I  came  back  from  Flanders;  and  already  it's  drove 
me  to  that  pitch  of  tiredness  of  it  that  when  a  poor 
little  innocent  slip  of  a  boy  in  the  street  the  other 
night  drew  himself  up  and  saluted  and  began  whistling 
it  at  me,  I  clouted  his  head  for  him,  God  forgive  me. 

SIR  PEAECE  [soothingly].  Yes,  yes:  I  know.  I 
know.  One  does  get  fed  up  with  it:  I've  been  dog 
tired  myself  on  parade  many  a  time.  But  still,  you 
know,  there's  a  gratifying  side  to  it,  too.  After  all, 
he  is  our  king;  and  it's  our  own  country,  isn't  it? 

o'flaherty.  Well,  sir,  to  you  that  have  an  estate 
in  it,  it  would  feel  like  your  country.  But  the  divil  a 
perch  of  it  ever  I  owned.  And  as  to  the  king,  God  help 
him,  my  mother  would  have  taken  the  skin  off  my 
back  if  I'd  ever  let  on  to  have  any  other  king  than 
Parnell. 

SIR  PEARCE  {rising,  painfully  shocked].  Your  mother! 
What  are  you  dreaming  about,  O'Flaherty.?  A  most 
loyal  woman.  Always  most  loyal.  Whenever  there 
is  an  illness  in  the  Royal  Family,  she  asks  me  every 
time  we  meet  about  the  health  of  the  patient  as 
anxiously  as  if  it  were  yourself,  her  only  son. 

o'flaherty.  Well,  she's  my  mother;  and  I  won't 
utter  a  word  agen  her.  But  I'm  not  saying  a  word 
of  lie  when  I  tell  you  that  that  old  woman  is  the 
biggest  kanatt  from  here  to  the  cross  of  Monaster- 
boice.  Sure  she's  the  wildest  Fenian  and  rebel,  and 
always  has  been,  that  ever  taught  a  poor  innocent 
lad  like  myself  to  pray  night  and  morning  to  St  Patrick 


186  OTlaherty  V.  C. 

to  clear  the  English  out  of  Ireland  the  same  as  he 
cleared  the  snakes.  You'll  be  surprised  at  my  telling 
you  that  now,  maybe,  Sir  Pearce? 

SIR  PEARCE  [unable  to  keep  still,  walking  away  from 
0' Flaherty}'  Surprised!  I'm  more  than  surprised, 
O'Flaherty.  I'm  overwhelmed.  [Turning  and  facing 
him.']    Are  you  —  are  you  joking.^ 

o'flaherty.  If  you'd  been  brought  up  by  my 
mother,  sir,  you'd  know  better  than  to  joke  about  her. 
What  I'm  telling  you  is  the  truth;  and  I  wouldn't 
tell  it  to  you  if  I  could  see  my  way  to  get  out  of  the 
fix  I'll  be  in  when  my  mother  comes  here  this  day  to 
see  her  boy  in  his  glory,  and  she  after  thinking  all  the 
time  it  was  against  the  English  I  was  fighting. 

SIR  PEARCE.  Do  you  mean  to  say  you  told  her  such 
a  monstrous  falsehood  as  that  you  were  fighting  in  the 
German  army.? 

o'flaherty.  I  never  told  her  one  word  that  wasn't 
the  truth  and  nothing  but  the  truth.  I  told  her  I  was 
going  to  fight  for  the  French  and  for  the  Russians; 
and  sure  who  ever  heard  of  the  French  or  the  Russians 
doing  anything  to  the  English  but  fighting  them.? 
That  was  how  it  was,  sir.  And  sure  the  poor  woman 
kissed  me  and  went  about  the  house  singing  in  her 
old  cracky  voice  that  the  French  was  on  the  sea, 
and  they'd  be  here  without  delay,  and  the  Orange  will 
decay,  says  the  Shan  Van  Vocht. 

SIR  PEARCE  [sitting  down  again,  exhausted  by  his 
feelings'}.  Well,  I  never  could  have  believed  this. 
Never.  What  do  you  suppose  will  happen  when  she 
finds  out.? 

o'flaherty.  She  mustn't  find  out.  It's  not  that 
she'd  half  kill  me,  as  big  as  I  am  and  as  brave  as  I 
am.  It's  that  I'm  fond  of  her,  and  can't  bring  myself 
to  break  the  heart  in  her.  You  may  think  it  queer 
that  a  man  should  be  fond  of  his  mother,  sir,  and  she 


OTlaherty  V.  C.  187 

having  bet  him  from  the  time  he  could  feel  to  the 
time  she  was  too  slow  to  ketch  him;  but  I*m  fond  of 
her;  and  I'm  not  ashamed  of  it.  Besides,  didn't  she 
win  the  Cross  for  me? 

SIR  PEARCE.    Your  mother!  How? 

o'flaherty.  By  bringing  me  up  to  be  more  afraid  of 
running  away  than  of  fighting.  I  was  timid  by  nature; 
and  when  the  other  boys  hurted  me,  I'd  want  to  run 
away  and  cry.  But  she  whaled  me  for  disgracing  the 
blood  of  the  O'Flahertys  until  I'd  have  fought  the 
divil  himself  sooner  than  face  her  after  funking  a 
fight.  That  was  how  I  got  to  know  that  fighting 
was  easier  than  it  looked,  and  that  the  others  was  as 
much  afeard  of  me  as  I  was  of  them,  and  that  if  I 
only  held  out  long  enough  they'd  lose  heart  and  give 
up.  That's  the  way  I  came  to  be  so  courageous.  I 
tell  you.  Sir  Pearce,  if  the  German  army  had  been 
brought  up  by  my  mother,  the  Kaiser  would  be  dining 
in  the  banqueting  hall  at  Buckingham  Palace  this 
day,  and  King  George  polishing  his  jack  boots  for 
him  in  the  scullery. 

SIR  PEARCE.  But  I  don't  hke  this,  O'Flaherty. 
You  can't  go  on  deceiving  your  mother,  you  know. 
It's  not  right. 

o'flaherty.  Can't  go  on  deceiving  her,  can't  I? 
It's  little  you  know  what  a  son's  love  can  do,  sir.  Did 
you  ever  notice  what  a  ready  liar  I  am? 

SIR  PEARCE.  Well,  in  recruiting  a  man  gets  carried 
away.  I  stretch  it  a  bit  occasionally  myself.  After 
all,  it's  for  king  and  country.  But  if  you  won't  mind 
my  saying  it,  O'Flaherty,  I  think  that  story  about 
your  fighting  the  Kaiser  and  the  twelve  giants  of  the 
Prussian  guard  singlehanded  would  be  the  better  for 
a  little  toning  down.  I  don't  ask  you  to  drop  it,  you 
know;  for  it's  popular,  undoubtedly;  but  still,  the 
truth  is  the  truth.     Don't  you  think  it  ^ould  fetch 


188  O'Flaherty  V.  C. 

in  almost  as  many  recruits  if  you  reduced  the  number 
of  guardsmen  to  six? 

o 'FLAHERTY.  You'rc  uot  uscd  to  telling  lies  like 
I  am,  sir.  I  got  great  practice  at  home  with  my  mother. 
What  with  saving  my  skin  when  I  was  young  and 
thoughtless,  and  sparing  her  feelings  when  I  was  old 
enough  to  understand  them,  I've  hardly  told  my  mother 
the  truth  twice  a  year  since  I  was  born;  and  would  you 
have  me  turn  round  on  her  and  tell  it  now,  when  she's 
looking  to  have  some  peace  and  quiet  in  her  old  age? 

SIR  PEARCE  [troubled  in  his  conscience]-  Well,  it's 
not  my  affair,  of  course,  O'Flaherty.  But  hadn't  you 
better  talk  to  Father  Quinlan  about  it? 

o'flaherty.  Talk  to  Father  Quinlan,  is  it!  Do 
you  know  what  Father  Quinlan  says  to  me  this  very 
morning? 

SIR  PEARCE.  Oh,  you've  seen  him  already,  have 
you?    What  did  he  say? 

o'flaherty.  He  says  "You  know,  don't  you,"  he 
says,  "that  it's  your  duty,  as  a  Christian  and  a  good 
son  of  the  Holy  Church,  to  love  your  enemies?"  he 
says.  "I  know  it's  my  jutyas  a  soldier  to  kill  them," 
I  says.  "That's  right,  Dinny,"  he  says:  "quite 
right.  But,"  says  he,  "you  can  kill  them  and  do  them 
a  good  turn  afterward  to  show  your  love  for  them" 
he  says;  "and  it's  your  duty  to  have  a  mass  said  for 
the  souls  of  the  hundreds  of  Germans  you  say  you 
killed,"  says  he;  "for  many  and  many  of  them  were 
Bavarians  and  good  Catholics,"  he  says.  "Is  it  me 
that  must  pay  for  masses  for  the  souls  of  the  Boshes?" 
I  says.  "Let  the  King  of  England  pay  for  them,"  I 
says;   "for  it  was  his  quarrel  and  not  mine." 

SIR  PEARCE  [warmly].  It  is  the  quarrel  of  every 
honest  man  and  true  patriot,  O'Flaherty.  Your 
mother  must  see  that  as  clearly  as  I  do.  After  all, 
she  is  a  res  *'')nable,  well  disposed  woman,  quite  capable 


OTlaherty  V.  C.  189 

of  understanding  the  right  and  the  wrong  of  the  war. 
Why  can't  you  explain  to  her  what  the  war  is  about? 

o'flaherty.  Arra,  sir,  how  the  divil  do  I  know 
what  the  war  is  about? 

SIR  PEARCE  [rising  again  and  standing  over  hirn]. 
What!  O'Flaherty:  do  you  know  what  you  are  say- 
ing? You  sit  there  wearing  the  Victoria  Cross  for 
having  killed  God  knows  how  many  Germans;  and 
you  tell  me  you  don't  know  why  you  did  it ! 

o'flaherty.  Asking  your  pardon.  Sir  Pearce,  I 
tell  you  no  such  thing.  I  know  quite  well  why  I  kilt 
them,  because  I  was  afeard  that,  if  I  didn't,  they'd 
kill  me. 

SIR  PEARCE  [giving  it  up,  and  sitting  doivn  again"]. 
Yes,  yes,  of  course;  but  have  you  no  knowledge  of 
the  causes  of  the  war?  of  the  interests  at  stake?  of 
the  importance  —  I  may  almost  say  —  in  fact  I  will 
say  —  the  sacred  right  for  which  we  are  fighting? 
Don't  you  read  the  papers? 

o'flaherty.  I  do  when  I  can  get  them.  There's 
not  many  newsboys  crying  the  evening  paper  in  the 
trenches.  They  do  say.  Sir  Pearce,  that  we  shall 
never  beat  the  Boshes  until  we  make  Horatio  Bottom- 
ley  Lord  Lef  tnant  of  England.  Do  you  think  that's  true, 
sir? 

SIR  PEARCE.  Rubbish,  man!  there's  no  Lord  Lieu- 
tenant in  England:  the  king  is  Lord  Lieutenant. 
It's  a  simple  question  of  patriotism.  Does  patriotism 
mean  nothing  to  you? 

o'flaherty.  It  means  different  to  me  than  what  it 
would  to  you,  sir.  It  means  England  and  England's 
king  to  you.  To  me  and  the  like  of  me,  it  means 
talking  about  the  English  just  the  way  the  English 
papers  talk  about  the  Boshes.  And  what  good  has  it 
ever  done  here  in  Ireland?  It's  kept  me  ignorant 
because  it  filled  up  my  mother's  mind,  and  she  thought 


190  O'Flaherty  V.  C. 

it  ought  to  fill  up  mine  too.  It's  kept  Ireland  poor, 
because  instead  of  trying  to  better  ourselves  we  thought 
we  was  the  fine  fellows  of  patriots  when  we  were  speak- 
ing evil  of  Englishmen  that  was  as  poor  as  ourselves 
and  maybe  as  good  as  ourselves.  The  Boshes  I  kilt 
was  more  knowledgable  men  than  me;  and  what 
better  am  I  now  that  IVe  kilt  them?  What  better  is 
anybody.'* 

SIR  PEARCE  [huffedy  turning  a  cold  shoulder  to  hirri].  I 
am  sorry  the  terrible  experience  of  this  war  —  the 
greatest  war  ever  fought  —  has  taught  you  no  better, 
O'Flaherty. 

o'flaherty  {jpreserving  his  dignity].  I  don't  know 
about  it's  being  a  great  war,  sir.  It's  a  big  war;  but 
that's  not  the  same  thing.  Father  Quinlan's  new 
church  is  a  big  church:  you  might  take  the  little  old 
chapel  out  of  the  middle  of  it  and  not  miss  it.  But 
my  mother  says  there  was  more  true  religion  in  the 
old  chapel.  And  the  war  has  taught  me  that  maybe 
she  was  right. 

SIR  PEARCE  \jgrunts  sulJcily^ll 

o'flaherty  [respectfully  but  doggedly].  And  there's 
another  thing  it's  taught  me  too,  sir,  that  concerns 
you  and  me,  if  I  may  make  bold  to  tell  it  to  you. 

SIR  PEARCE  [still  sulky'].  I  hope  it's  nothing  you 
oughtn't  to  say  to  me,  O'Flaherty. 

o'flaherty.  It's  this,  sir:  that  I'm  able  to  sit 
here  now  and  talk  to  you  without  humbugging  you; 
and  that's  what  not  one  of  your  tenants  or  your  tenants' 
childer  ever  did  to  you  before  in  all  your  long  life. 
It's  a  true  respect  I'm  showing  you  at  last,  sir.  Maybe 
you'd  rather  have  me  humbug  you  and  tell  you  lies 
as  I  used,  just  as  the  boys  here,  God  help  them,  would 
rather  have  me  tell  them  how  I  fought  the  Kaiser, 
that  all  the  world  knows  I  never  saw  in  my  life,  than 
tell  them  the  truth.     But  I  can't  take  advantage  of 


OTlaherty  V.  C.  191 

you  the  way  I  used,  not  even  if  I  seem  to  be  wanting 
in  respect  to  you  and  cocked  up  by  winning  the  Cross. 

SIR  PEARCE  [touched2.  Not  at  all,  OTlaherty. 
Not  at  all. 

o'flaherty.  Sure  what's  the  Cross  to  me,  barring 
the  little  pension  it  carries?  Do  you  think  I  don't 
know  that  there's  hundreds  of  men  as  brave  as  me 
that  never  had  the  luck  to  get  anything  for  their 
bravery  but  a  curse  from  the  sergeant,  and  the  blame 
for  the  faults  of  them  that  ought  to  have  been  their 
betters?  I've  learnt  more  than  you'd  think,  sir;  for 
how  would  a  gentleman  like  you  know  what  a  poor 
ignorant  conceited  creature  I  was  when  I  went  from 
here  into  the  wide  world  as  a  soldier?  What  use  is 
all  the  lying,  and  pretending,  and  humbugging,  and 
letting  on,  when  the  day  comes  to  you  that  your 
comrade  is  killed  in  the  trench  beside  you,  and  you 
don't  as  much  as  look  round  at  him  until  you  trip 
over  his  poor  body,  and  then  all  you  say  is  to  ask 
why  the  hell  the  stretcher-bearers  don't  take  it  out  of 
the  way.  Why  should  I  read  the  papers  to  be  hum- 
bugged and  lied  to  by  them  that  had  the  cunning  to 
stay  at  home  and  send  me  to  fight  for  them?  Don't 
talk  to  me  or  to  any  soldier  of  the  war  being  right. 
No  war  is  right;  and  all  the  holy  water  that  Father 
Quinlan  ever  blessed  couldn't  make  one  right.  There, 
sir!  Now  you  know  what  O'Flaherty  V.C.  thinks; 
and  you're  wiser  so  than  the  others  that  only  knows 
what  he  done. 

SIR  PEARCE  [making  the  best  of  it,  and  turning  good- 
humor  edly  to  him  agairi}.  Well,  what  you  did  was 
brave  and  manly,  anyhow. 

o'flaherty.  God  knows  whether  it  was  or  not, 
better  than  you  nor  me.  General.  I  hope  He  won't  be 
too  hard  on  me  for  it,  anyhow. 

SIR  PEARCE  [sympathetically]'    Oh  yes:   we  all  have 


192  OTlaherty  V.  C. 

to  think  seriously  sometimes,  especially  when  we're 
a  little  run  down.  I'm  afraid  we've  been  overwork- 
ing you  a  bit  over  these  recruiting  meetings.  How- 
ever, we  can  knock  off  for  the  rest  of  the  day;  and 
tomorrow's  Sunday.  I've  had  about  as  much  as  I 
can  stand  myself.  \^He  looks  at  his  watch.~\  It's  tea- 
time.    I  wonder  what's  keeping  your  mother. 

o'flaherty.  It's  nicely  cocked  up  the  old  woman 
will  be  having  tea  at  the  same  table  as  you,  sir,  in- 
stead of  in  the  kitchen.  She'll  be  after  dressing  in 
the  heigh th  of  grandeur;  and  stop  she  will  at  every 
house  on  the  way  to  show  herself  off  and  tell  them 
where  she's  going,  and  fill  the  whole  parish  with  spite 
and  envy.  But  sure,  she  shouldn't  keep  you  waiting, 
sir. 

SIR  PEARCE.  Oh,  that's  all  right:  she  must  be  in- 
dulged on  an  occasion  like  this.  I'm  sorry  my  wife  is 
in  London:  she'd  have  been  glad  to  welcome  your 
mother. 

o'flaherty.  Sure,  I  know  she  would,  sir.  She 
was  always  a  kind  friend  to  the  poor.  Little  her  lady- 
ship knew,  God  help  her,  the  depth  of  divilment  that 
was  in  us:  we  were  like  a  play  to  her.  You  see,  sir, 
she  was  English:  that  was  how  it  was.  We  was  to 
her  what  the  Pathans  and  Senegalese  was  to  me  when 
I  first  seen  them:  I  couldn't  think,  somehow,  that 
they  were  liars,  and  thieves,  and  backbiters,  and 
drunkards,  just  like  ourselves  or  any  other  Chris- 
tians. Oh,  her  ladyship  never  knew  all  that  was 
going  on  behind  her  back:  how  would  she?  When  I 
was  a  weeshy  child,  she  gave  me  the  first  penny  I 
ever  had  in  my  hand;  and  I  wanted  to  pray  for  her 
conversion  that  night  the  same  as  my  mother  made 
me  pray  for  yours;  and  — 

SIR  PEARCE  [scandalized^.  Do  you  mean  to  say 
that  your  mother  made  you  pray  for  my  conversion? 


OTIaherty  V.  C.  193 

o'flaherty.  Sure  and  she  wouldn't  want  to  see  a 
gentleman  like  you  going  to  hell  after  she  nursing 
your  own  son  and  bringing  up  my  sister  Annie  on  the 
bottle.  That  was  how  it  was,  sir.  She'd  rob  you; 
and  she'd  lie  to  you;  and  she'd  call  down  all  the  bless- 
ings of  God  on  your  head  when  she  was  selling  you 
your  own  three  geese  that  you  thought  had  been  ate 
by  the  fox  the  day  after  you'd  finished  fattening 
them,  sir;  and  all  the  time  you  were  like  a  bit  of  her 
own  flesh  and  blood  to  her.  Often  has  she  said  she'd 
live  to  see  you  a  good  Catholic  yet,  leading  victorious 
armies  against  the  English  and  wearing  the  collar  of 
gold  that  Malachi  won  from  the  proud  invader.  Oh, 
she's  the  romantic  woman  is  my  mother,  and  no  mis- 
take. 

SIR  PEARCE  [in  great  perturbation}.  I  really  can't 
believe  this,  OTIaherty.  I  could  have  sworn  your 
mother  was  as  honest  a  woman  as  ever  breathed. 

o'flaherty.  And  so  she  is,  sir.  She's  as  honest  as 
the  day. 

SIR  PEARCE.    Do  you  Call  it  honest  to  steal  my  geese? 

o'flaherty.  She  didn't  steal  them,  sir.  It  was 
me  that  stole  them. 

SIR  PEARCE.  Oh!  And  why  the  devil  did  you  steal 
them? 

o'flaherty.  Sure  we  needed  them,  sir.  Often 
and  often  we  had  to  sell  our  own  geese  to  pay  you  the 
rent  to  satisfy  your  needs;  and  why  shouldn't  we 
sell  your  geese  to  satisfy  ours? 

SIR  PEARCE.    Well,  damn  me ! 

o'flaherty  [sweetly'].  Sure  you  had  to  get  what 
you  could  out  of  us;  and  we  had  to  get  what  we  could 
out  of  you.    God  forgive  us  both! 

SIR  PEARCE.  Really,  O 'Flaherty,  the  war  seems  to 
have  upset  you  a  httle. 

o'flaherty.     It's  set  me  thinking,  sir;    and  I'm 


194  O'Flaherty  V.  C. 

not  used  to  it.  It's  like  the  patriotism  of  the  English. 
They  never  thought  of  being  patriotic  until  the  war 
broke  out;  and  now  the  patriotism  has  took  them  so 
sudden  and  come  so  strange  to  them  that  they  run 
about  like  frightened  chickens,  uttering  all  manner  of 
nonsense.  But  please  God  they'll  forget  all  about  it 
when  the  war's  over.  They're  getting  tired  of  it 
already. 

SIR  PEARCE.  No,  no:  it  has  uplifted  us  all  in  a 
wonderful  way.  The  world  will  never  be  the  same 
again,  O'Flaherty.    Not  after  a  war  like  this. 

o'flaherty.  So  they  all  say,  sir.  I  see  no  great 
differ  myself.  It's  all  the  fright  and  the  excitement; 
and  when  that  quiets  down  they'll  go  back  to  their 
natural  divilment  and  be  the  same  as  ever.  It's 
like  the  vermin:  it'll  wash  off  after  a  while. 

SIR  PEARCE  [rising  and  planting  himself  firmly  be- 
hind the  garden  seat'].  Well,  the  long  and  the  short  of 
it  is,  O'Flaherty,  I  must  decline  to  be  a  party  to  any 
attempt  to  deceive  your  mother.  I  thoroughly  dis- 
approve of  this  feeling  against  the  English,  especially 
at  a  moment  like  the  present.  Even  if  your  mother's 
political  sympatheis  are  really  what  you  represent 
them  to  be,  I  should  think  that  her  gratitude  to  Glad- 
stone ought  to  cure  her  of  such  disloyal  prejudices. 

o'flaherty  [over  his  shoulder].  She  says  Gladstone 
was  an  Irishman,  sir.  What  call  would  he  have  to 
meddle  with  Ireland  as  he  did  if  he  wasn't? 

SIR  PEARCE.  What  nonsense!  Does  she  suppose 
Mr  Asquith  is  an  Irishman? 

o'flaherty.  She  won't  give  him  any  credit  for 
Home  Rule,  sir.  She  says  Redmond  made  him  do  it. 
She  says  you  told  her  so. 

SIR  PEARCE  [convicted  out  of  his  own  mouth].  Well, 
I  never  meant  her  to  take  it  up  in  that  ridiculous  way. 
[He  moves  to  the  end  of  the  garden  seat  on  O'Flaherty's 


OTlaherty  V.  C.  195 

left."]  I'll  give  her  a  good  talking  to  when  she  comes. 
I'm  not  going  to  stand  any  of  her  nonsense. 

o'flaherty.  It's  not  a  bit  of  use,  sir.  She  says  all 
the  English  generals  is  Irish.  She  says  all  the  English 
poets  and  great  men  was  Irish.  She  says  the  English 
never  knew  how  to  read  their  own  books  until  we 
taught  them.  She  says  we're  the  lost  tribes  of  the 
house  of  Israel  and  the  chosen  people  of  God.  She 
says  that  the  goddess  Venus,  that  was  born  out  of 
the  foam  of  the  sea,  came  up  out  of  the  water  in  Killiney 
Bay  off  Bray  Head.  She  says  that  Moses  built  the 
seven  churches,  and  that  Lazarus  was  buried  in  Glas- 
nevin. 

SIR  PEARCE.  Bosh!  How  docs  she  know  he  was? 
Did  you  ever  ask  her.'* 

o'flaherty.    I  did,  sir,  often. 

SIR  PEARCE.    And  what  did  she  say? 

o'flaherty.  She  asked  me  how  did  I  know  he 
wasn't,  and  fetched  me  a  clout  on  the  side  of  my 
head. 

SIR  PEARCE.  But  have  you  never  mentioned  any 
famous  Englishman  to  her,  and  asked  her  what  she 
had  to  say  about  him? 

o'flaherty.  The  only  one  I  could  think  of  was 
Shakespeare,  sir;   and  she  says  he  was  born  in  Cork. 

SIR  PEARCE  [exhausted~].  Well,  I  give  it  up  [he 
throws  himself  into  the  nearest  chair'].  The  woman  is 
—  Oh,  well !  No  matter. 

o'flaherty  [^sympathetically].  Yes,  sir:  she's  pig- 
headed and  obstinate:  there's  no  doubt  about  it. 
She's  like  the  English:  they  think  there's  no  one  like 
themselves.  It's  the  same  with  the  Germans,  though 
they're  educated  and  ought  to  know  better.  You'll 
never  have  a  quiet  world  till  you  knock  the  patriotism 
out  of  the  human  race. 

SIR  PEARCE.    Still,  we  — 


196  OTlaherty  V.  C. 

o'flaherty.    Whisht,  sir,  for  God's  sake:  here  she  is. 

The  General  jumps  up.  Mrs.  O'Flaherty  arrives 
and  comes  between  the  two  men.  She  is  very  clean,  and 
carefully  dressed  in  the  old  fashioned  peasant  costume; 
black  silk  sunbonnet  with  a  tiara  of  trimmings^  and  black 
cloak. 

o'flaherty  [rising  shyly'].    Good  evening,  mother. 

MRS  o'flaherty  [severely].  You  hold  your  whisht, 
and  learn  behavior  while  I  pay  my  juty  to  his  honor. 
[To  Sir  Pearce,  heartily.]  And  how  is  your  honor's 
good  self.?  And  how  is  her  ladyship  and  all  the  young 
ladies  .f^  Oh,  it's  right  glad  we  are  to  see  your  honor 
back  again  and  looking  the  picture  of  health. 

SIR  PEARCE  [forcing  a  note  of  extreme  geniality]. 
Thank  you,  Mrs  O'Flaherty.  Well,  you  see  we've 
brought  you  back  your  son  safe  and  sound.  I  hope 
you're  proud  of  him. 

MRS  o'flaherty.  And  indeed  and  I  am,  your 
honor.  It's  the  brave  boy  he  is;  and  why  wouldn't 
he  be,  brought  up  on  your  honor's  estate  and  with 
you  before  his  eyes  for  a  pattern  of  the  finest  soldier 
in  Ireland.  Come  and  kiss  your  old  mother,  Dinny 
darlint.  [O'Flaherty  does  so  sheepishly.]  That's  my 
own  darling  boy.  And  look  at  your  fine  new  uniform 
stained  already  with  the  eggs  you've  been  eating  and 
the  porter  you've  been  drinking.  [She  takes  out  her 
handkerchief:  spits  on  it:  and  scrubs  his  lapel  with 
it^  Oh,  it's  the  untidy  slovenly  one  you  always  were. 
There!  It  won't  be  seen  on  the  khaki:  it's  not  hke 
the  old  red  coat  that  would  show  up  everything  that 
dribbled  down  on  it.  [To  Sir  Pearce.]  And  they 
tell  me  down  at  the  lodge  that  her  ladyship  is  staying 
in  London,  and  that  Miss  Agnes  is  to  be  married  to 
a  fine  young  nobleman.  Oh,  it's  your  honor  that  is 
the  lucky  and  happy  father!  It  will  be  bad  news  for 
many  of  the  young  gentlemen  of  the  quality  round 


OTlaherty  V.  C.  197 

here,  sir.  There's  lots  thought  she  was  going  to  marry 
young  Master  Lawless  — 

SIR  PEARCE.    What !    That  —  that  —  that  bosthoon ! 

MRS  o*FLAHERTY  \_hilariously~\.  Let  your  honor 
alone  for  finding  the  right  word!  A  big  bosthoon  he 
is  indeed,  your  honor.  Oh,  to  think  of  the  times  and 
times  I  have  said  that  Miss  Agnes  would  be  my  lady 
as  her  mother  was  before  her!    Didn't  I,  Dinny? 

SIR  PEARCE.  And  now,  Mrs.  O'Flaherty,  I  daresay 
you  have  a  great  deal  to  say  to  Dennis  that  doesn't 
concern  me.    I'll  just  go  in  and  order  tea. 

MRS  o'flaherty.  Oh,  why  would  your  honor 
disturb  yourseK?  Sure  I  can  take  the  boy  into  the 
yard. 

SIR  PEARCE.  Not  at  all.  It  won't  disturb  me  in 
the  least.  And  he's  too  big  a  boy  to  be  taken  into  the 
yard  now.  He  has  made  a  front  seat  for  himself. 
Eh?  [He  goes  into  the  house. ~\ 

MRS  o'flaherty.  Surc  he  has  that,  your  honor. 
God  bless  your  honor!  [The  General  being  now  out 
of  hearing^  she  turns  threateningly  to  her  son  vrith  one 
of  those  sudden  Irish  changes  of  manner  which  amaze 
and  scandalize  less  flexible  nations,  and  exclaims.~\ 
And  what  do  you  mean,  you  lying  young  scald,  by 
telling  me  you  were  going  to  fight  agen  the  English? 
Did  you  take  me  for  a  fool  that  couldn't  find  out,  and 
the  papers  all  full  of  you  shaking  hands  with  the 
English  king  at  Buckingham  Palace? 

o'flaherty.  I  didn't  shake  hands  with  him:  he 
shook  hands  with  me.  Could  I  turn  on  the  man  in 
his  own  house,  before  his  own  wife,  with  his  money 
in  my  pocket  and  in  yours,  and  throw  his  civility 
back  in  his  face? 

MRS  o'flaherty.  You  would  take  the  hand  of  a 
tyrant  red  with  the  blood  of  Ireland  — 

o'flaherty.      Arra    hold   your   nonsense,    mother: 


198  O'Flaherty  V.  C. 

he*s  not  half  the  tyrant  you  are,  God  help  him.  His 
hand  was  cleaner  than  mine  that  had  the  blood  of 
his  own  relations  on  it,  maybe. 

MRS  o*FLAHERTY  [threateningly'].  Is  that  a  way  to 
speak  to  your  mother,  you  young  spalpeen? 

o'flaherty  [stoutly].  It  is  so,  if  you  won't  talk 
sense  to  me.  It's  a  nice  thing  for  a  poor  boy  to  be 
made  much  of  by  kings  and  queens,  and  shook  hands 
with  by  the  heighth  of  his  country's  nobility  in  the 
capital  cities  of  the  world,  and  then  to  come  home  and 
be  scolded  and  insulted  by  his  own  mother.  I'll 
fight  for  who  I  like;  and  I'll  shake  hands  with  what 
kings  I  like;  and  if  your  own  son  is  not  good  enough 
for  you,  you  can  go  and  look  for  another.  Do  you 
mind  me  now.'^ 

MRS  o'flaherty.  And  was  it  the  Belgians  learned 
you  such  brazen  impudence? 

o'flaherty.  The  Belgians  is  good  men;  and  the 
French  ought  to  be  more  civil  to  them,  let  alone  their 
being  half  murdered  by  the  Boshes. 

MRS  o'flaherty.  Good  men  is  it!  Good  men!  to 
come  over  here  when  they  were  wounded  because  it 
was  a  Catholic  country,  and  then  to  go  to  the  Prot- 
estant Church  because  it  didn't  cost  them  anything, 
and  some  of  them  to  never  go  near  a  church  at  all. 
That's  what  you  call  good  men ! 

o'flaherty.  Oh,  you're  the  mighty  fine  politician, 
aren't  you?  Much  you  know  about  Belgians  or  foreign 
parts  or  the  world  you're  living  in,  God  help  you ! 

MRS  o'flaherty.  Why  wouldn't  I  know  better 
than  you?    Amment  I  your  mother? 

o'flaherty.  And  if  you  are  itself,  how  can  you 
know  what  you  never  seen  as  well  as  me  that  was  dug 
into  the  continent  of  Europe  for  six  months,  and  was 
buried  in  the  earth  of  it  three  times  with  the  shells 
bursting  on  the  top  of  me?    I  tell  you  I  know  what 


OTlaherty  V.  C.  199 

I*m  about.  I  have  my  own  reasons  for  taking  part 
in  this  great  conflict.  I*d  be  ashamed  to  stay  at 
home  and  not  fight  when  everybody  else  is  fighting. 

MRS  o'flaherty.  If  you  wanted  to  fight,  why 
couldn't  you  fight  in  the  German  army.'' 

o'flaherty.    Because  they  only  get  a  penny  a  day. 

MRS  o'flaherty.  Well,  and  if  they  do  itself,  isn't 
there  the  French  army? 

o'flaherty.    They  only  get  a  hapenny  a  day. 

MRS  o'flaherty  [mucfi  dashed].  Oh  murder! 
They  must  be  a  mean  lot,  Dinny. 

o'flaherty  [^sarcastic].  Maybe  you'd  have  me 
join  the  Turkish  army,  and  worship  the  heathen 
Mahomet  that  put  a  corn  in  his  ear  and  pretended  it 
was  a  message  from  the  heavens  when  the  pigeon 
come  to  pick  it  out  and  eat  it.  I  went  where  I  could 
get  the  biggest  allowance  for  you;  and  little  thanks 
I  get  for  it! 

MRS  o'flaherty.  Allowaucc,  is  it!  Do  you  know 
what  the  thieving  blackguards  did  on  me?  They 
came  to  me  and  they  says,  "Was  your  son  a  big  eater? " 
they  says.  "Oh,  he  was  that,"  says  I:  "ten  shillings 
a  week  wouldn't  keep  him."  Sure  I  thought  the  more 
I  said  the  more  they'd  give  me.  "Then,"  says  they, 
"that's  ten  shillings  a  week  off  your  allowance,"  they 
says,  "because  you  save  that  by  the  king  feeding 
him."  "Indeed!"  says  I:  "I  suppose  if  I'd  six  sons, 
you'd  stop  three  pound  a  week  from  me,  and  make 
out  that  I  ought  to  pay  you  money  instead  of  you 
paying  me."  "There's  a  fallacy  in  your  argument," 
they  says. 

o'flaherty.    a  what? 

MRS  o'flaherty.  A  fallacy:  that's  the  word  he 
said.  I  says  to  him,  "It's  a  Pharisee  I'm  thinking 
you  mean,  sir;  but  you  can  keep  your  dirty  money 
that  your  king  grudges  a  poor  old  widow;   and  please 


200  O'Flaherty  V.  C. 

God  the  English  will  be  bet  yet  for  the  deadly  sin  of 
oppressing  the  poor";  and  with  that  I  shut  the  door 
in  his  face. 

o*FLAHERTY  [^furious]-  T>o  you  tell  me  they  knocked 
ten  shillings  off  you  for  my  keep? 

MRS  o'flaherty  \_sooihing  hirn].  No,  darlint: 
they  only  knocked  off  half  a  crown.  I  put  up  with  it 
because  IVe  got  the  old  age  pension;  and  they  know 
very  well  I'm  only  sixty-two;  so  IVe  the  better  of 
them  by  half  a  crown  a  week  anyhow. 

o'flaherty.  It's  a  queer  way  of  doing  business. 
If  they'd  tell  you  straight  out  what  they  was  going 
to  give  you,  you  wouldn't  mind;  but  if  there  was 
twenty  ways  of  telling  the  truth  and  only  one  way  of 
telling  a  lie,  the  Government  would  find  it  out.  It's 
in  the  nature  of  governments  to  tell  hes. 

Teresa  Driscoll,  a  parlor  maid,  comes  from  the 
house, 

TERESA.  You're  to  come  up  to  the  drawingroom 
to  have  your  tea,  Mrs.  O'Flaherty. 

MRS  o'flaherty.  Mind  you  have  a  sup  of  good 
black  tea  for  me  in  the  kitchen  afterwards,  acushla. 
That  washy  drawingroom  tea  will  give  me  the  wind 
if  I  leave  it  on  my  stomach.  [_She  goes  into  the  house, 
leaving  the  two  young  people  alone  together  r\ 

o'flaherty.  Is  that  yourself,  Tessie?  And  how 
are  you? 

TERESA.    Nicely,  thank  you.    And  how's  yourself? 

o'flaherty.  Finely,  thank  God.  \^He  produces  a 
gold  chain.2    Look  what  I've  brought  you,  Tessie. 

TERESA  [shrinking~\.  Sure  I  don't  like  to  touch  it, 
Denny.    Did  you  take  it  off  a  dead  man? 

o'flaherty.  No:  I  took  it  off  a  live  one;  and 
thankful  he  was  to  me  to  be  alive  and  kept  a  prisoner 
in  ease  and  comfort,  and  me  left  fighting  in  peril  of 
my  life. 


f 


O'Flaherty  V.  C.  201 

TERESA  [taking  z7].  Do  you  think  it's  real  gold, 
Denny? 

o'flaherty.    It's  real  German  gold,  anyhow. 

TERESA.    But  German  silver  isn't  real,  Denny. 

o'flaherty  [his  face  darkening'}.  Well,  it's  the 
best  the  Bosh  could  do  for  me,  anyhow. 

TERESA.  Do  you  think  I  might  take  it  to  the  jeweller 
next  market  day  and  ask  him? 

o'flaherty  [sulkily]'  You  may  take  it  to  the 
divil  if  you  like. 

TERESA.  You  needn't  lose  your  temper  about  it. 
I  only  thought  I'd  like  to  know.  The  nice  fool  I'd 
look  if  I  went  about  showing  off  a  chain  that  turned 
out  to  be  only  brass! 

o'flaherty.    I  think  you  might  say  Thank  you. 

TERESA.  Do  you?  I  think  you  might  have  said 
something  more  to  me  than  "Is  that  yourseK?"  You 
couldn't  say  less  to  the  postman. 

o'flaherty  [his  brow  clearing'].  Oh,  is  that  what's 
the  matter?  Here!  come  and  take  the  taste  of  ther 
brass  out  of  my  mouth.    [He  seizes  her  and  kisses  her.] 

Teresa,  without  losing  her  Irish  dignity,  takes  the 
kiss  as  appreciatively  as  a  connoisseur  might  take  a 
glass  of  wine,  and  sits  down  with  him  on  the  garden  seat, 

TERESA  [as  he  squeezes  her  waist].  Thank  God  the 
priest  can't  see  us  here! 

o'flaherty.  It's  little  they  care  for  priests  in 
France,  alanna. 

TERESA.  And  what  had  the  queen  on  her,  Denny, 
when  she  spoke  to  you  in  the  palace? 

o'flaherty.  She  had  a  bonnet  on  without  any 
strings  to  it.  And  she  had  a  plakeen  of  embroidery 
down  her  bosom.  And  she  had  her  waist  where  it 
used  to  be,  and  not  where  the  other  ladies  had  it. 
And  she  had  little  brooches  in  her  ears,  though  she 
hadn't  half  the  jewelry  of  Mrs  Sullivan  that  keeps 


202  OTlaherty  V.  C. 

the  popshop  in  Drumpogue.  And  she  dresses  her 
hair  down  over  her  forehead,  in  a  fringe  Hke.  And 
she  has  an  Irish  look  about  her  eyebrows.  And  she 
didn't  know  what  to  say  to  me,  poor  woman!  and 
I  didn't  know  what  to  say  to  her,  God  help  me ! 

TERESA.  You'll  have  a  pension  now  with  the  Cross, 
won't  you,  Denny? 

o'flaherty.    Sixpence  three  farthings  a  day. 

TERESA.    That  isn't  much. 

o'flaherty.    I  take  out  the  rest  in  glory. 

TERESA.  And  if  you're  wounded,  you'll  have  a 
wound  pension,  won't  you? 

o'flaherty.    I  will,  please  God. 

TERESA.  You're  going  out  again,  aren't  you, 
Denny? 

o'flaherty.  I  can't  help  myself.  I'd  be  shot  for  a 
deserter  if  I  didn't  go;  and  maybe  I'll  be  shot  by  the 
Boshes  if  I  do  go;  so  between  the  two  of  them  I'm 
nicely  fixed  up. 

MRS  o'flaherty  [^calling  from  within  the  house]. 
Tessie!  Tessie  darlint! 

TERESA  [^disengaging  herself  from  his  arm  and  rising], 
I'm  wanted  for  the  tea  table.  You'll  have  a  pension 
anyhow,  Denny,  won't  you,  whether  you're  wounded 
or  not? 

MRS  o'flaherty.    Come,  child,  come. 

TERESA  [impatiently].  Oh,  sure  I'm  coming.  [She 
tries  to  smile  at  Denny,  not  very  convincingly ,  and  hurries 
into  the  house.] 

o'flaherty  [alone].  And  if  I  do  get  a  pension 
itself,  the  divil  a  penny  of  it  you'll  ever  have  the 
spending  of. 

MRS  o'flaherty  [as  she  comes  from  the  porch].  Oh, 
it's  a  shame  for  you  to  keep  the  girl  from  her  juties, 
Dinny.    You  might  get  her  into  trouble. 

o'flaherty.     Much  I  care  whether  she  gets  into 


O'Flaherty  V.  C.  203 

trouble  or  not!  I  pity  the  man  that  gets  her  into 
trouble.    He'll  get  himself  into  worse. 

MRS  o'flaherty.  What's  that  you  tell  me.'*  Have 
you  been  falling  out  with  her,  and  she  a  girl  with  a 
fortune  of  ten  pounds? 

o'flaherty.  Let  her  keep  her  fortune.  I  wouldn't 
touch  her  with  the  tongs  if  she  had  thousands  and 
millions. 

MRS  o*FLAHERTY.  Oh  fie  for  shame,  Dinny!  why 
would  you  say  the  like  of  that  of  a  decent  honest 
girl,  and  one  of  the  Driscolls  too? 

o'flaherty.  Why  wouldn't  I  say  it?  She's  think- 
ing of  nothing  but  to  get  me  out  there  again  to  be 
wounded  so  that  she  may  spend  my  pension,  bad 
scran  to  her! 

MRS  o'flaherty.  Why,  what's  come  over  you, 
child,  at  all  at  all? 

o'flaherty.  Knowledge  and  wisdom  has  come 
over  me  with  pain  and  fear  and  trouble.  I've  been 
made  a  fool  of  and  imposed  upon  all  my  life.  I  thought 
that  covetious  sthreal  in  there  was  a  walking  angel; 
and  now  if  ever  I  marry  at  all  I'll  marry  a  French- 
woman. 

MRS  o'flaherty  {^fiercely].  You'll  not,  so;  and 
don't  you  dar  repeat  such  a  thing  to  me. 

o'flaherty.  Won't  I,  faith!  I've  been  as  good 
as  married  to  a  couple  of  them  already. 

MRS  o'flaherty.  The  Lord  be  praised,  what 
wickedness  have  you  been  up  to,  you  young  black- 
guard? 

o'flaherty.  One  of  them  Frenchwomen  would 
cook  you  a  meal  twice  in  the  day  and  all  days  and 
every  day  that  Sir  Pearce  himself  might  go  begging 
through  Ireland  for,  and  never  see  the  like  of.  I'll 
have  a  French  wife,  I  tell  you;  and  when  I  settle 
down  to  be  a  farmer  I'll  have  a  French  farm,  with  a 


204  OTlaherty  V.  C. 

field  as  big  as  the  continent  of  Europe  that  ten  of 
your  dirty  little  fields  here  wouldn't  so  much  as  fill  the 
ditch  of. 

MRS  o'flaherty  [^furious].  Then  it's  a  French 
mother  you  may  go  look  for;  for  I'm  done  with 
you. 

o'flaherty.  And  it's  no  great  loss  you'd  be  if 
it  wasn't  for  my  natural  feelings  for  you;  for  it's 
only  a  silly  ignorant  old  countrywoman  you  are  with 
all  your  fine  talk  about  Ireland :  you  that  never  stepped 
beyond  the  few  acres  of  it  you  were  born  on ! 

MRS  o'flaherty  [toUering  to  the  garden  seat  and 
showing  signs  of  breaking  dovm].  Dinny  darlint,  why 
are  you  like  this  to  me?    What's  happened  to  you? 

o'flaherty  \_gloomily~\.  What's  happened  to  every- 
body .f^  that's  what  I  want  to  know.  What's  happened 
to  you  that  I  thought  all  the  world  of  and  was  afeard 
of.?  What's  happened  to  Sir  Pearce,  that  I  thought 
was  a  great  general,  and  that  I  now  see  to  be  no  more 
fit  to  command  an  army  than  an  old  hen.?  What's 
happened  to  Tessie,  that  I  was  mad  to  marry  a  year 
ago,  and  that  I  wouldn't  take  now  with  all  Ireland 
for  her  fortime?  I  tell  you  the  world's  creation  is 
crumbling  in  ruins  about  me;  and  then  you  come  and 
ask  what's  happened  to  me? 

MRS  o'flaherty  [jgiving  way  to  vnld  grief].  Ochone! 
ochone!  my  son's  turned  agen  me.  Oh,  what '11  I  do 
at  all  at  all.?    Oh!  oh!  oh!  oh! 

SIR  PEARCE  [running  out  of  the  house].  What's  this 
infernal  noise?    What  on  earth  is  the  matter? 

o'flaherty.  Arra  hold  your  whisht,  mother. 
Don't  you  see  his  honor? 

MRS  o'flaherty.  Oh,  sir,  I'm  ruined  and  de- 
stroyed. Oh,  won't  you  speak  to  Dinny,  sir:  I'm 
heart  scalded  with  him.  He  wants  to  marry  a  French- 
woman on  me,  and  to  go  away  and  be  a  foreigner  and 


O'Flaherty  V.  C.  205 

desert  his  mother  and  betray  his  country.  It's  mad 
he  is  with  the  roaring  of  the  cannons  and  he  kilhng 
the  Germans  and  the  Germans  kiUing  him,  bad  cess 
to  them!  My  boy  is  taken  from  me  and  turned  agen 
me;  and  who  is  to  take  care  of  me  in  my  old  age 
after  all  I've  done  for  him,  ochone!  ochone! 

o'flaherty.  Hold  your  noise,  I  tell  you.  Who's 
going  to  leave  you?  I'm  going  to  take  you  with  me. 
There  now:  does  that  satisfy  you? 

MRS  o'flaherty.  Is  it  take  me  into  a  strange  land 
among  heathens  and  pagans  and  savages,  and  me 
not  knowing  a  word  of  their  language  nor  them  of 
mine? 

o'flaherty.  a  good  job  they  don't:  maybe  they'll 
think  you're  talking  sense. 

MRS  o'flaherty.  Ask  me  to  die  out  of  Ireland,  is 
it?  and  the  angels  not  to  find  me  when  they  come  for 
me! 

o'flaherty.  And  would  you  ask  me  to  live  in 
Ireland  where  I've  been  imposed  on  and  kept  in  ig- 
norance, and  to  die  where  the  divil  himself  wouldn't 
take  me  as  a  gift,  let  alone  the  blessed  angels?  You 
can  come  or  stay.  You  can  take  your  old  way  or 
take  my  young  way.  But  stick  in  this  place  I  will 
not  among  a  lot  of  good-for-nothing  divils  that'll 
not  do  a  hand's  turn  but  watch  the  grass  growing 
and  build  up  the  stone  wall  where  the  cow  walked 
through  it.  And  Sir  Horace  Plunkett  breaking  his 
heart  all  the  time  telling  them  how  they  might  put 
the  land  into  decent  tillage  like  the  French  and  Bel- 
gians. 

SIR  PEARCE.  Yes,  he's  quite  right,  you  know,  Mrs 
O'Flaherty :  quite  right  there. 

MRS  o'flaherty.  Well,  sir,  please  God  the  war 
will  last  a  long  time  yet;  and  maybe  I'll  die  before 
it's  over  and  the  separation  allowance  stops. 


206  OTlaherty  V.  C. 

o*FLAHERTY.  That's  all  you  care  about.  It's 
nothing  but  miloh  cows  we  men  are  for  the  women, 
with  their  separation  allowances,  ever  since  the  war 
began,  bad  luck  to  them  that  made  it ! 

TERESA  [^coming  from  the  porch  between  the  General 
and  Mrs  0' Flaherty].  Hannah  sent  me  out  for  to  tell 
you,  sir,  that  the  tea  will  be  black  and  the  cake  not 
fit  to  eat  with  the  cold  if  yous  all  don't  come  at 
wanst. 

MRS  o'flaherty  [breaking  out  again'}.  Oh,  Tessie 
darlint,  what  have  you  been  saying  to  Dinny  at  all 
at  all?    Oh!  oh  — 

SIR  PEARCE  [put  of  patience'].  You  can't  discuss 
that  here.    We  shall  have  Tessie  beginning  now. 

o'flaherty.    That's  right,  sir:   drive  them  in. 

TERESA.    I  haven't  said  a  word  to  him.    He  — 

SIR  PEARCE.  Hold  your  tongue;  and  go  in  and  attend 
to  your  business  at  the  tea  table. 

TERESA.  But  amment  I  telling  your  honor  that 
I  never  said  a  word  to  him?  He  gave  me  a  beautiful 
gold  chain.  Here  it  is  to  show  your  honor  that  it's 
no  lie  I'm  telling  you. 

SIR  PEARCE.  What's  this,  O'Flaherty?  You've 
been  looting  some  unfortunate  officer. 

o'flaherty.  No,  sir:  I  stole  it  from  him  of  his 
own  accord. 

MRS  o'flaherty.  Wouldn't  your  honor  tell  him 
that  his  mother  has  the  first  call  on  it?  What  would 
a  slip  of  a  girl  like  that  be  doing  with  a  gold  chain 
round  her  neck? 

TERESA  [venomously].  Anyhow,  I  have  a  neck 
to  put  it  round  and  not  a  hank  of  wrinkles. 

At  this  unfortunate  remark,  Mrs  O^Flaherty  bounds 
from  her  seat:  and  an  appalling  tempest  of  wordy  wrath 
breaks  out.  The  remonstrances  and  commands  of  the 
General,  and  the  protests  and  menaces  of  O'Flaherty, 


OTlaherty  V.  C.  207 

only  increase  the  hubbub.  They  are  soon  all  speaking 
at  once  at  the  top  of  their  voices. 

MBS  o'flaherty  [^solo'].  You  impudent  young 
heifer,  how  dar  you  say  such  a  thing  to  me?  {^Teresa 
retorts  furiously:  the  men  interfere:  and  the  solo  be- 
comes a  quartet,  fortissimo."]  I've  a  good  mind  to 
clout  your  ears  for  you  to  teach  you  manners.  Be 
ashamed  of  yourself,  do;  and  learn  to  know  who 
you're  speaking  to.  That  I  maytn't  sin!  but  I 
don't  know  what  the  good  God  was  thinking  about 
when  he  made  the  like  of  you.  Let  me  not  see  you 
casting  sheep's  eyes  at  my  son  again.  There  never 
was  an  O'Flaherty  yet  that  would  demean  himself 
by  keeping  company  with  a  dirty  Driscoll;  and  if 
I  see  you  next  or  nigh  my  house  I'll  put  you  in  the 
ditch  with  a  flea  in  your  ear:   mind  that  now. 

TERESA.  Is  it  me  you  offer  such  a  name  to,  you 
fou-mouthed,  dirty-minded,  lying,  sloothering  old 
sow,  you.?  I  wouldn't  soil  my  tongue  by  calling 
you  in  yoiu*  right  name  and  telling  Sir  Pearce  what's 
the  common  talk  of  the  town  about  you.  You  and 
your  O'Flahertys!  setting  yourself  up  a  gen  the 
DriscoUs  that  would  never  lower  themselves  to 
be  seen  in  conversation  with  you  at  the  fair.  You 
can  keep  your  ugly  stingy  lump  of  a  son;  for  what 
is  he  but  a  common  soldier.'^  and  God  help  the  girl 
that  gets  him,  say  I!  So  the  back  of  my  hand  to 
you,  Mrs  O'Flaherty;  and  that  the  cat  may  tear 
your  ugly  old  face ! 

SIR  PEARCE.  Silence.  Tessie,  did  you  hear  me 
ordering  you  to  go  into  the  house .^^  Mrs  O'Flaherty! 
[Louder^  Mrs  O'Flaherty!!  Will  you  just  listen  to 
me  one  moment?  Please.  [Furiously. ~]  Do  you 
hear  me  speaking  to  you,  woman?  Are  you  human 
beings  or  are  you  wild  beasts?  Stop  that  noise 
immediately:    do  you  hear?     \_Yelling.~\     Are  you 


208  OTlaherty  V.  C. 

going  to  do  what  I  order  you,  or  are  you  not?  Scan- 
dalous! Disgraceful!  This  comes  of  being  too 
famiUar  with  you.  OTlaherty,  shove  them  into 
the  house.  Out  with  the  whole  damned  pack  of 
you. 

o'flaherty  [to  the  women].  Here  now:  none  of 
that,  none  of  that.  Go  easy,  I  tell  you.  Hold  your 
whisht,  mother,  will  you,  or  you'll  be  sorry  for  it 
after.  [To  Teresa.]  Is  that  the  way  for  a  decent 
young  girl  to  speak?  [Despairingly.]  Oh,  for  the 
Lord's  sake,  shut  up,  will  yous?  Have  yous  no  re- 
spect for  yourselves  or  your  betters?  [Peremp- 
torily.] Let  me  have  no  more  of  it,  I  tell  you.  Och ! 
the  divil's  in  the  whole  crew  of  you.  In  with  you 
into  the  house  this  very  minute  and  tear  one  an- 
other's eyes  out  in  the  kitchen  if  you  like.  In  with 
you. 

The  two  men  seize  the  two  women,  and  push  them,  still 
violently  abusing  one  another,  into  the  house.  Sir  Pearce 
slams  the  door  upon  them  savagely.  Immediately  a 
heavenly  silence  falls  on  the  summer  afternoon.  The 
two  sit  down  out  of  breath:  and  for  a  long  time  nothing 
is  said.  Sir  Pearce  sits  on  an  iron  chair.  OTlaherty 
sits  on  the  garden  seat.  The  thrush  begins  to  sing  melo- 
diously. O'Flaherty  cocks  his  ears,  and  looks  up  at  it. 
A  smile  spreads  over  his  troubled  features.  Sir  Pearce, 
with  a  long  sigh,  takes  out  his  pipe  and  begins  to  fill 
it. 

o'flaherty  [idyllically].  What  a  discontented 
sort  of  an  animal  a  man  is,  sir!  Only  a  month  ago, 
I  was  in  the  quiet  of  the  country  out  at  the  front, 
with  not  a  sound  except  the  birds  and  the  bellow  of 
a  cow  in  the  distance  as  it  might  be,  and  the  shrapnel 
making  little  clouds  in  the  heavens,  and  the  shells 
whistling,  and  maybe  a  yell  or  two  when  one  of  us 
was  hit;   and  would  you  believe  it,  sir,  I  complained 


OTlaherty  V.  C.  209 

of  the  noise  and  wanted  to  have  a  peaceful  hour  at 
home.  Well:  them  two  has  taught  me  a  lesson.  This 
morning,  sir,  when  I  was  telling  the  boys  here  how 
I  was  longing  to  be  back  taking  my  part  for  king  and 
country  with  the  others,  I  was  lying,  as  you  well 
knew,  sir.  Now  I  can  go  and  say  it  with  a  clear  con- 
science. Some  likes  war's  alarums;  and  some  likes 
home  life.  I've  tried  both,  sir;  and  I'm  for  war's 
alarums  now.  I  always  was  a  quiet  lad  by  natural 
disposition. 

SIR  PEARCE.  Strictly  between  ourselves,  O'Flaherty, 
and  as  one  soldier  to  another  [^O'Flaherty  salutes,  but 
without  stiffening'],  do  you  think  we  should  have  got 
an  army  without  conscription  if  domestic  life  had  been 
as  happy  as  people  say  it  is.'* 

o'flaherty.  Well,  between  you  and  me  and  the 
wall.  Sir  Pearce,  I  think  the  less  we  say  about  that 
until  the  war's  over,  the  better. 

He  winks  at  the  General.  The  General  strikes  a 
match.  The  thrush  sings.  A  jay  laughs.  The  conversa- 
tion drops. 


I 

THE  INCA  OP  PERUSALEM 


XXIX 


I  MUST  remind  the  reader  that  this  playlet  was  written 
when  its  principal  character,  far  from  being  a  fallen 
foe  and  virtually  a  prisoner  in  our  victorious  hands, 
was  still  the  Caesar  whose  legions  we  were  resisting 
with  our  hearts  in  our  mouths.  Many  were  so  horribly 
afraid  of  him  that  they  could  not  forgive  me  for  not 
being  afraid  of  him:  I  seemed  to  be  trifling  heart- 
lessly with  a  deadly  peril.  I  knew  better;  and  I  have 
represented  Caesar  as  knowing  better  himself.  But  it 
was  one  of  the  quaintnesses  of  popular  feeling  dur- 
ing the  war  that  anyone  who  breathed  the  slightest 
doubt  of  the  absolute  perfection  of  German  organiza- 
tion, the  Machiavellian  depth  of  German  diplomacy, 
the  omniscience  of  German  science,  the  equipment  of 
every  German  with  a  complete  philosophy  of  history, 
and  the  consequent  hopelessness  of  overcoming  so 
magnificently  accomplished  an  enemy  except  by  the 
sacrifice  of  every  recreative  activity  to  incessant  and 
vehement  war  work,  including  a  heartbreaking  mass 
of  fussing  and  cadging  and  bluffing  that  did  nothing 
but  waste  our  energies  and  tire  our  resolution,  was 
called  a  pro-German. 

Now  that  this  is  all  over,  and  the  upshot  of  the 
fighting  has  shown  that  we  could  quite  well  have 
afforded  to  laugh  at  the  doomed  Inca,  I  am  in  another 
difficulty.  I  may  be  supposed  to  be  hitting  Caesar 
when  he  is  down.  That  is  why  I  preface  the  play 
with  this  reminder  that  when  it  was  written  he  was 
not  down.  To  make  quite  sure,  I  have  gone  through 
the  proof  sheets  very  carefully,  and  deleted  every- 
thing that  could  possibly  be  mistaken  for  a  foul  blow. 
I  have  of  course  maintained  the  ancient  privilege  of 
comedy  to  chasten  Caesar's  foibles  by  laughing  at 
them,  whilst    introducing  enough    obvious   and    out- 

213 


rageous  fiction  to  relieve  both  myself  and  my  model 
from  the  obligations  and  responsibilities  of  sober 
history  and  biography.  But  I  should  certainly  put 
the  play  in  the  fire  instead  of  publishing  it  if  it  con- 
tained a  word  against  our  defeated  enemy  that  I 
would  not  have  written  in  1913. 


The  Inca  of  Perusalem  was  performed  for  the  first 
time  in  England  by  the  Pioneer  Players  at  the  Criterion 
Theatre y  London^  on  16th  December,  1917,  vnth  Gertrude 
Kingston  as  Ermyntrude,  Helen  Morris  as  the  Princess, 
Nigel  Playfair  as  the  waiter,  Alfred  Drayton  as  the 
hotel  manager,  C.  Wordley  Hulse  as  the  Archdeacon, 
and  Randle  Ayrton  as  the  Inca, 


2U 


PROLOGUE 

The  tableau  curtains  are  closed.  An  English  arch- 
deacon comes  through  them  in  a  condition  of  extreme 
irritation.  He  speaks  through  the  curtains  to  someone 
behind  them. 

THE  ARCHDEACON.  Oncc  foF  all,  Ermyntrudc,  I 
cannot  afford  to  maintain  you  in  your  present  ex- 
travagance. £He  goes  to  a  flight  of  steps  leading  to 
the  stalls  and  sits  down  disconsolately  on  the  top  step. 
A  fashionably  dressed  lady  comes  through  the  curtains 
and  contemplates  him  vnth  patient  obstinacy.  He  con- 
tinuesy  grumbling.']  An  English  clergyman's  daughter 
should  be  able  to  live  quite  respectably  and  comfort- 
ably on  an  allowance  of  £150  a  year,  wrung  with  great 
difficulty  from  the  domestic  budget. 

ERMYNTRUDE.  You  are  not  a  common  clergyman: 
you  are  an  archdeacon. 

THE  ARCHDEACON  [^angrily].  That  does  not  affect 
my  emoluments  to  the  extent  of  enabling  me  to  sup- 
port a  daughter  whose  extravagance  would  disgrace 
a  royal  personage.  [Scrambling  to  his  feet  and  scold- 
ing at  her.~\    What  do  you  mean  by  it,  Miss? 

ERMYNTRUDE.  Oh  really,  father!  Miss!  Is  that  the 
way  to  talk  to  a  widow  .f* 

THE  ARCHDEACON.  Is  that  the  Way  to  talk  to  a 
father?  Your  marriage  was  a  most  disastrous  im- 
prudence. It  gave  you  habits  that  are  absolutely 
beyond   your   means  —  I   mean    beyond   my  means: 

215 


216  The  Inca  of  Perusalem 

you  have  no  means.  Why  did  you  not  marry  Mat- 
thews: the  best  curate  I  ever  had? 

ERMYNTRUDE.  I  Wanted  to;  and  you  wouldn't 
let  me.  You  insisted  on  my  marrying  Roosenhonkers- 
Pipstein. 

THE  ARCHDEACON.  I  had  to  do  the  best  for  you,  my 
child.    Roosenhonkers-Pipstein  was  a  millionaire. 

ERMYNTRUDE.  How  did  you  know  he  was  a  million- 
aire? 

THE  ARCHDEACON.  He  Came  from  America.  Of 
course  he  was  a  millionaire.  Besides,  he  proved  to 
my  solicitors  that  he  had  fifteen  million  dollars  when 
you  married  him. 

ERMYNTRUDE.  His  soHcitops  provcd  to  me  that  he 
had  sixteen  millions  when  he  died.  He  was  a  million- 
aire to  the  last. 

THE  ARCHDEACON.  O  Mammou,  Mammon!  I 
am  punished  now  for  bowing  the  knee  to  him.  Is 
there  nothing  left  of  your  settlement?  Fifty  thousand 
dollars  a  year  it  secured  to  you,  as  we  all  thought. 
Only  half  the  securities  could  be  called  speculative. 
The  other  half  were  gilt-edged.  What  has  become  of 
it  all? 

ERMYNTRUDE.  The  Speculative  ones  were  not  paid 
up;  and  the  gilt-edged  ones  just  paid  the  calls  on 
them  until  the  whole  show  burst  up. 

THE  ARCHDEACON.  Ermyutrude:  what  expres- 
sions ! 

ERMYNTRUDE.  Oh  bothcr!  If  you  had  lost  ten 
thousand  a  year  what  expressions  would  you  use,  do 
you  think?  The  long  and  the  short  of  it  is  that  I  can't 
live  in  the  squalid  way  you  are  accustomed  to. 

THE  ARCHDEACON.    Squalid ! 

ERMYNTRUDE.    I  havc  formed  habits  of  comfort. 

THE  ARCHDEACON.      Comf Ort ! ! 

ERMYNTRUDE.    Well,  elegance  if  you  like.    Luxury, 


The  Inca  of  Perusalem  217 

if  you  insist.  Call  it  what  you  please.  A  house  that 
costs  less  than  a  hundred  thousand  dollars  a  year  to 
run  is  intolerable  to  me. 

THE  ARCHDEACON.  Then,  my  dear,  you  had  better 
become  lady's  maid  to  a  princess  until  you  can  find 
another  millionaire  to  marry  you. 

ERMYNTRUDE.  That's  an  idea.  I  will.  [_She  vanishes 
through  the  curtains.'] 

THE  ARCHDEACON.  What!  Comc  back,  Miss.  Come 
back  this  instant.  [^The  lights  are  lowered.]  Oh,  very 
well:  I  have  nothing  more  to  say.  [^He  descends  the 
steps  into  the  auditorium  and  makes  for  the  door,  grum- 
bling all  the  time.]  Insane,  senseless  extravagance! 
[^Barking.]  Worthlessness ! !  {^Muttering.]  I  will  not 
bear  it  any  longer.  Dresses,  hats,  furs,  gloves,  motor 
rides:  one  bill  after  another:  money  going  like  water. 
No  restraint,  no  self-control,  no  decency.  [^Shrieking.] 
I  say,  no  decency!  [_Muttering  again.]  Nice  state  of 
things  we  are  coming  to!  A  pretty  world!  But  I 
simply  will  not  bear  it.  She  can  do  as  she  likes.  I 
wash  my  hands  of  her:  I  am  not  going  to  die  in  the 
worldiouse  for  any  good-for-nothing,  undutiful,  spend- 
thrift daughter;  and  the  sooner  that  is  understood 
by  everybody  the  better  for  all  par —  [He  is  by  this 
time  out  of  hearing  in  the  corridor.] 


THE  PLAY 

A  hotel  sitting  room.  A  table  in  the  centre.  On  it  a 
telephone.  Two  chairs  at  it,  opposite  one  another.  Be- 
hind ity  the  door.  The  fireplace  has  a  mirror  in  the 
mantelpiece. 

A  spinster  Princess,  hatted  and  gloved,  is  ushered  in 
by  the  hotel  manager,  spruce  and  artifically  bland  by 
professional  habit,  but  treating  his  customer  with  a  con- 
descending affability  which  sails  very  close  to  the 
east  wind  of  indolence. 

THE  MANAGER.  I  am  soriy  I  am  unable  to  accom- 
modate Your  Highness  on  the  first  floor. 

THE  PRINCESS  \very  shy  and  nervous'].  Oh,  please 
don't  mention  it.  This  is  quite  nice.  Very  nice. 
Thank  you  very  much. 

THE  MANAGER.  We  could  prepare  a  room  in  the 
annexe  — 

THE  PRINCESS.    Oh  no.    This  will  do  very  well. 

She  takes  off  her  gloves  and  hat:  puts  them  on  the  table; 
and  sits  down. 

THE  MANAGER.  The  Tooms  are  quite  as  good  up 
here.  There  is  less  poise;  and  there  is  the  lift.  If 
Your  Highness  desires  anything,  there  is  the  tele- 
phone — 

THE  PRINCESS.  Oh,  thank  you,  I  don't  want  any- 
thing. The  telephone  is  so  difficult:  I  am  not  ac- 
customed to  it. 

THE  MANAGER.    Can  I  take  any  order?    Some  tea? 
218 


The  Inca  of  Perusalem  219 

THE  PRINCESS.  Oil,  thank  you.  Yes:  I  should 
like  some  tea,  if  I  might  —  if  it  would  not  be  too  much 
trouble. 

He  goes  out.  The  telephone  rings.  The  Princess 
starts  out  of  her  chair,  terrified,  and  recoils  as  far  as 
possible  from  the  instrument. 

THE  PRINCESS.  Oh  dear!  £It  rings  again.  She 
looks  scared.  It  rings  again.  She  approaches  it  timidly. 
It  rings  again.  She  retreats  hastily.  It  rings  repeatedly. 
She  runs  to  it  in  desperation  and  puts  the  receiver  to  her 
ear.'}  Who  is  there.^  What  do  I  do?  I  am  not  used  to 
the  telephone:  I  don't  know  how  —  What!  Oh,  I 
can  hear  you  speaking  quite  distinctly.  [^She  sits 
dovm,  delighted,  and  settles  herself  for  a  conversation}. 
How  wonderful!  What!  A  lady.?  Oh!  a  person.  Oh, 
yes:  I  know.  Yes,  please,  send  her  up.  Have  my 
servants  finished  their  lunch  yet?  Oh  no:  please 
don't  disturb  them:  I'd  rather  not.  It  doesn't  matter. 
Thank  you.  What?  Oh  yes,  it's  quite  easy.  I  had 
no  idea  —  am  I  to  hang  it  up  just  as  it  was?  Thank 
you.    [^She  hangs  it  up.} 

Ermyntrude  enters,  presenting  a  plain  and  staid  ap- 
pearance in  a  long  straight  waterproof  with  a  hood  over 
her  head  gear.  She  comes  to  the  end  of  the  table  opposite 
to  that  at  which  the  Princess  is  seated. 

THE  PRINCESS.  Excusc  mc.  I  havc  been  talking 
through  the  telephone:  and  I  heard  quite  well,  though 
I  have  never  ventured  before.    Won't  you  sit  down? 

ERMYNTRUDE.  No,  thank  you.  Your  Highness. 
I  am  only  a  lady's  maid.  I  understood  you  wanted 
one. 

THE  PRINCESS.  Oh  uo:  you  mustn't  think  I  want 
one.  It's  so  unpatriotic  to  want  anything  now,  on 
account  of  the  war,  you  know.  I  sent  my  maid  away 
as  a  public  duty;  and  now  she  has  married  a  soldier 
and  is  expecting  a  war  baby.    But  I  don't  know  how 


220  The  Inca  of  Perusalem 

to  do  without  her.  I've  tried  my  very  best;  but 
somehow  it  doesn't  answer:  everybody  cheats  me; 
and  in  the  end  it  isn't  any  saving.  So  I've  made  up 
my  mind  to  sell  my  piano  and  have  a  maid.  That 
will  be  a  real  saving,  because  I  really  don't  care 
a  bit  for  music,  though  of  course  one  has  to  pretend 
to.    Don't  you  think  so? 

ERMYNTRUDE.  Certainly  I  do.  Your  Highness. 
Nothing  could  be  more  correct.  Saving  and  self- 
denial  both  at  once;  and  an  act  of  kindness  to  me, 
as  I  am  out  of  place. 

THE  PRINCESS.  I'm  SO  glad  you  see  it  in  that  way. 
Er —  you  won't  mind  my  asking,  will  you?  —  how 
did  you  lose  your  place? 

ERMYNTRUDE.    The  war.  Your  Highness,  the  war. 

THE  PRINCESS.    Oh  ycs,  of  course.    But  how  — 

ERMYNTRUDE  [taking  out  her  handkerchief  and  show- 
ing signs  of  grief]-    My  poor  mistress  — 

THE  PRINCESS.  Oh  please  say  no  more.  Don't 
think  about  it.    So  tactless  of  me  to  mention  it. 

ERMYNTRUDE  [mastering  her  emotion  and  smiling 
through  her  tears]-    Your  Highness  is  too  good. 

THE  PRINCESS.  Do  you  think  you  could  be  happy 
with  me?    I  attach  such  importance  to  that. 

ERMYNTRUDE  [gushing].    Oh,  I  know  I  shall. 

THE  PRINCESS.  You  must  uot  cxpcct  too  much. 
There  is  my  uncle.  He  is  very  severe  and  hasty; 
and  he  is  my  guardian.  I  once  had  a  maid  I  liked  very 
much;  but  he  sent  her  away  the  very  first  time. 

ERMYNTRUDE.  The  first  time  of  what,  Your  High- 
ness? 

THE  PRINCESS.  Oh,  Something  she  did.  I  am  sure 
she  had  never  done  it  before;  and  I  know  she  would 
never  have  done  it  again,  she  was  so  truly  contrite 
and  nice  about  it. 

ERMYNTRUDE.    About  what,  Your  Highness? 


The  Inca  of  Perusalem  221 

THE  PRINCESS.  Well,  she  wore  my  jewels  and  one 
of  my  dresses  at  a  rather  improper  ball  with  her  young 
man;  and  my  uncle  saw  her. 

ERYMNTRUDE.  Then  he  was  at  the  ball  too.  Your 
Highness? 

THE  PRINCESS  \^struck  by  the  inference].  I  suppose 
he  must  have  been.  I  wonder!  You  know,  it's  very 
sharp  of  you  to  find  that  out.  I  hope  you  are  not  too 
sharp. 

ERMYNTRUDE.  A  lady's  maid  has  to  be,  Your 
Highness.  [^She  produces  some  letters.]  Your  High- 
ness wishes  to  see  my  testimonials,  no  doubt.  I  have 
one  from  an  Archdeacon.    [^She  proffers  the  letters,] 

THE  PRINCESS  [taking  them].  Do  archdeacons  have 
maids?    How  curious! 

ERMYNTRUDE.  No,  YouF  Highucss.  They  have 
daughters.  I  have  first-rate  testimonials  from  the 
Archdeacon  and  from  his  daughter. 

THE  PRINCESS  [reading  them].  The  daughter  says 
you  are  in  every  respect  a  treasure.  The  Archdeacon 
says  he  would  have  kept  you  if  he  could  possibly  tiave 
afforded  it.    Most  satisfactory,  I*m  sure. 

ERMYNTRUDE.  May  I  regard  myself  as  engaged  then. 
Your  Highness? 

THE  PRINCESS  [alarmed].  Oh,  I*m  sure  I  don't 
know.  If  you  like,  of  course;  but  do  you  think  I 
ought  to? 

ERMYNTRUDE.  Naturally  I  think  Your  Highness 
ought  to,  most  decidedly. 

THE  PRINCESS.  Oh  wcU,  if  you  think  that,  I  daresay 
you're  quite  right.  You'll  excuse  my  mentioning  it,  I 
hope;  but  what  wages  —  er  — ? 

ERMYNTRUDE.  The  Same  as  the  maid  who  went  to 
the  ball.    Your  Highness  need  not  make  any  change. 

THE  PRINCESS.  M'ycs.  Of  course  she  began  with 
less.    But  she  had  such  a  number  of  relatives  to  keep! 


I 


222  The  Inca  of  Pemsalem 

It  was  quite  heartbreaking:  I  had  to  raise  her  wages 
again  and  again. 

ERMYNTRUDE.  I  shall  be  quite  content  with  what 
she  began  on;  and  I  have  no  relatives  dependent  on 
me.    And  I  am  willing  to  wear  my  own  dresses  at  balls. 

THE  PRINCESS.  I  am  sure  nothing  could  be  fairer 
than  that.    My  uncle  can't  object  to  that,  can  he? 

ERMYNTRUDE.  If  he  docs,  YouF  Highuess,  ask  him 
to  speak  to  me  about  it.  I  shall  regard  it  as  part  of  my 
duties  to  speak  to  your  uncle  about  matters  of  business. 

THE  PRINCESS.  Would  you?  You  must  be  fright- 
fully courageous. 

ERMYNTRUDE.  May  I  regard  myself  as  engaged, 
Your  Highness?  I  should  like  to  set  about  my  duties 
immediately. 

THE  PRINCESS.  Oh  ycs,  I  think  so.  Oh  certainly. 
I  — 

A  waiter  comes  in  with  the  tea.  He  plax;es  the  tray  on 
the  table, 

THE  PRINCESS.    Oh,  thank  you. 

ERMYNTRUDE  [raising  the  cover  from  the  tea  cake  and 
looking  at  it"].  How  long  has  that  been  standing  at  the 
top  of  the  stairs? 

THE  PRINCESS  [terrified].  Oh  please!  It  doesn't 
matter 

THE  WAITER.  It  has  uot  bccu  waiting.  Straight 
from  the  kitchen,  madam,  believe  me. 

ERMYNTRUDE.    Send  the  manager  here. 

THE  WAITER.  The  manager!  What  do  you  want 
with  the  manager? 

ERMYNTRUDE.  He  wiU  tell  you  when  I  have  done 
with  him.  How  dare  you  treat  Her  Highness  in  this 
disgraceful  manner?  What  sort  of  pothouse  is  this? 
Where  did  you  learn  to  speak  to  persons  of  quality? 
Take  away  your  cold  tea  and  cold  cake  instantly. 
Give  them  to  the  chambermaid  you  were  flirting  with 


The  Inca  of  Perusalem  223 

whilst  Her  Highness  was  waiting.  Order  some  fresh 
tea  at  once;  and  do  not  presume  to  bring  it  yourself: 
have  it  brought  by  a  civil  waiter  who  is  accustomed 
to  wait  on  ladies,  and  not,  like  you,  on  commercial 
travellers. 

THE  WAITER.  Alas,  madam,  I  am  not  accustomed  to 
wait  on  nay  body.  Two  years  ago  I  was  an  eminent 
medical  man.  My  waiting-room  was  crowded  with  the 
flower  of  the  aristocracy  and  the  higher  bourgeoisie 
from  nine  to  six  every  day.  But  the  war  came;  and 
my  patients  were  ordered  to  give  up  their  luxuries. 
They  gave  up  their  doctors,  but  kept  their  week-end 
hotels,  closing  every  career  to  me  except  the  career  of 
a  waiter.  [He  puts  his  fingers  on  the  teapot  to  test  its 
temperature,  and  automatically  takes  out  his  watch  with 
the  other  hand  as  if  to  count  the  teapofs  pulseJ]  You 
are  right:  the  tea  is  cold:  it  was  made  by  the  wife  of 
a  once  fashionable  architect.  The  cake  is  only  half 
toasted:  what  can  you  expect  from  a  ruined  west-end 
tailor  whose  attempt  to  establish  a  second-hand  busi- 
ness failed  last  Tuesday  week?  Have  you  the  heart  to 
complain  to  the  manager?  Have  we  not  suffered 
enough?  Are  our  miseries  nev —  [the  manager  enters'}. 
Oh  Lord!  here  he  is.  [The  waiter  withdraws  abjectly, 
taking  the  tea  tray  with  him.'} 

THE  MANAGER.  Pardou,  Your  Highness;  but  I  have 
received  an  urgent  inquiry  for  rooms  from  an  English 
family  of  importance;  and  I  venture  to  ask  you  to  let 
me  know  how  long  you  intend  to  honor  us  with  your 
presence. 

THE  PRINCESS  [risiug  anxiously}.  Oh!  am  I  in  the 
way? 

ERMYNTRUDE  [stemly}.  Sit  down,  madam.  [The 
Princess  sits  down  forlornly.  Ermyntrude  turns  imperi- 
ously to  the  Manager}.  Her  Highness  will  require  this 
room  for  twenty  minutes. 


224  The  Inca  of  Perusalem 

THE  MANAGER.    Twenty  minutes! 

ERMYNTRUDE.  Yes:  it  will  take  fully  that  time  to 
find  a  proper  apartment  in  a  respectable  hotel. 

THE  MANAGER.    I  do  not  Understand. 

ERMYNTRUDE.  You  Understand  perfectly.  How 
dare  you  offer  Her  Highness  a  room  on  the  second 
floor? 

THE  MANAGER.  But  I  havc  explained.  The  first 
floor  is  occupied.    At  least  — 

ERMYNTRUDE.    Well?   at  least? 

THE  MANAGER.      It  is  OCCUpicd. 

ERMYNTRUDE.  Don't  you  dare  tell  Her  Highness  a 
falsehood.  It  is  not  occupied.  You  are  saving  it  up 
for  the  arrival  of  the  five-fifteen  express,  from  which 
you  hope  to  pick  up  some  fat  armaments  contractor 
who  will  drink  all  the  bad  champagne  in  your  cellar 
at  25  francs  a  bottle,  and  pay  twice  over  for  every- 
thing because  he  is  in  the  same  hotel  with  Her  High- 
ness, and  can  boast  of  having  turned  her  out  of  the 
best  rooms. 

THE  MANAGER.  But  Her  Highucss  was  so  gracious. 
I  did  not  know  that  Her  Highness  was  at  all  particular. 

ERMYNTRUDE.  And  you  take  advantage  of  Her 
Highnesses  graciousness.  You  impose  on  her  with 
your  stories.  You  give  her  a  room  not  fit  for  a  dog. 
You  send  cold  tea  to  her  by  a  decayed  professional  per- 
son disguised  as  a  waiter.  But  don't  think  you  can 
trifle  with  me.  I  am  a  lady's  maid;  and  I  know  the 
ladies'  maids  and  valets  of  all  the  aristocracies  of  Eu- 
rope and  all  the  millionaires  of  America.  When  I 
expose  your  hotel  as  the  second-rate  little  hole  it  is, 
not  a  soul  above  the  rank  of  a  curate  with  a  large 
family  will  be  seen  entering  it.  I  shake  its  dust  off 
my  feet.  Order  the  luggage  to  be  taken  down  at 
once. 

THE  MANAGER  [appealing  to  the  Princess].    Can  Your 


The  Inca  of  Perusalem  225 

Highness  believe  this  of  me?     Have  I  had  the  mis- 
fortune to  offend  Your  Highness? 

THE  PRINCESS.  Oh  uo.  I  am  quite  satisfied. 
Please  — 

ERMYNTRUDE.   Is  Your  Highness  dissatisfied  with  me? 

THE  PRINCESS  [intimidated].  Oh  no:  please  don*t 
think  that.    I  only  meant  — 

ERMYNTRUDE  [to  the  manager].  You  hear.  Perhaps 
you  think  Her  Highness  is  going  to  do  the  work  of 
teaching  you  your  place  herself,  instead  of  leaving  it 
to  her  maid. 

THE  MANAGER.  Oh  plcasc,  mademoiselle.  Believe 
me:  our  only  wish  is  to  make  you  perfectly  comfort- 
able. But  in  consequence  of  the  war,  all  royal  person- 
ages now  practise  a  rigid  economy,  and  desire  us  to 
treat  them  like  their  poorest  subjects. 

THE  PRINCESS.    Oh  yes.    You  are  quite  right  — 

ERMYNTRUDE  [interrupting].  There!  Her  Highness 
forgives  you;  but  don't  do  it  again.  Now  go  downstairs, 
my  good  man,  and  get  that  suite  on  the  first  floor  ready 
for  us.  And  send  some  proper  tea.  And  turn  on  the 
heating  apparatus  until  the  temperature  in  the  rooms 
is  comfortably  warm.  And  have  hot  water  put  in  all 
the  bedrooms  — 

THE  MANAGER.  There  are  basins  with  hot  and  cold 
taps. 

ERMYNTRUDE  [scornfully].    Yes:   there  would  be. 
suppose  we  must  put  up  with  that:  sinks  in  our  rooms, 
and  pipes  that  rattle  and  bang  and  guggle  all  over  the 
house  whenever  anyone  washes  his  hands.    I  know. 

THE  MANAGER  [gallant].  You  are  hard  to  please, 
mademoiselle. 

ERMYNTRUDE.  No  harder  than  other  people.  But 
when  I'm  not  pleased  I'm  not  too  ladylike  to  say  so. 
That's  all  the  difference.  There  is  nothing  more,  thank 
you. 


226  The  Inca  of  Perusalem 

The  Manager  shrugs  his  shoulders  resignedly;  makes 
a  deep  bow  to  the  Princess;  goes  to  the  door;  wafts  a  kiss 
surreptitiously  to  Ermyntrude;   and  goes  out. 

THE  PRINCESS.  It's  wonderful!  How  have  you  the 
courage? 

ERMYNTRUDE.  In  Your  Highness's  service  I  know  no 
fear.  Your  Highness  can  leave  all  unpleasant  people 
to  me. 

THE  PRINCESS.  How  I  wish  I  could!  The  most 
dreadful  thing  of  all  I  have  to  go  through  myself. 

ERMYNTRUDE.  Dare  I  ask  what  it  is.  Your  High- 
ness? 

THE  PRINCI3SS.  I'm  going  to  be  married.  I'm  to  be 
met  here  and  married  to  a  man  I  never  saw.  A  boy! 
A  boy  who  never  saw  me!  One  of  the  sons  of  the  Inca 
of  Perusalem. 

ERMYNTRUDE.    Indeed?    Which  son? 

THE  PRINCESS.  I  dou't  know.  They  haven't  settled 
which.  It's  a  dreadful  thing  to  be  a  princess:  they 
just  marry  you  to  anyone  they  like.  The  Inca  is  to 
come  and  look  at  me,  and  pick  out  whichever  of  his 
sons  he  thinks  will  suit.  And  then  I  shall  be  an  alien 
enemy  everywhere  except  in  Perusalem,  because  the 
Inca  has  made  war  on  everybody.  And  I  shall  have 
to  pretend  that  everybody  has  made  war  on  him.  It's 
too  bad. 

ERMYNTRUDE.  Still,  a  husbaud  is  a  husband.  I 
wish  I  had  one. 

THE  PRINCESS.  Oh,  how  cau  you  say  that!  I'm 
afraid  you're  not  a  nice  woman. 

ERMYNTRUDE.  Your  Highucss  is  provided  for.  I'm 
not. 

THE  PRINCESS.  Evcu  if  you  could  bear  to  let  a  man 
touch  you,  you  shouldn't  say  so. 

ERMYNTRUDE.  I  shall  uot  Say  so  again,  Your  High- 
ness, except  perhaps  to  the  man. 


The  Inca  of  Perusalem  227 

THE  PRINCESS.  It's  too  dreadful  to  think  of.  I  won- 
der you  can  be  so  coarse.  I  really  don't  think  you'll 
suit.  I  feel  sure  now  that  you  know  more  about  men 
than  you  should. 

ERMYNTRUDE.    I  am  a  widow,  Your  Highness. 

THE  PRINCESS  [overwhelmed}.  Oh,  I  BEG  your  par- 
don. Of  course  I  ought  to  have  known  you  would  not 
have  spoken  like  that  if  you  were  not  married.  That 
makes  it  all  right,  doesn't  it?    I'm  so  sorry. 

The  Manager  returns,  white,  scared,  hardly  able  to 
speak. 

THE  MANAGER.  Your  Highncss,  an  officer  asks  to 
see  you  on  behalf  of  the  Inca  of  Perusalem. 

THE  PRINCESS  [rising  distractedly].  Oh,  I  can't, 
really.    Oh,  what  shall  I  do? 

THE  MANAGER.  On  important  business,  he  says. 
Your  Highness.     Captain  Duval. 

ERMYNTRUDE.  Duval!  Nousensc!  The  usual  thing. 
It  is  the  Inca  himself,  incognito. 

THE  PRINCESS.  Oh,  scud  him  away.  Oh,  I'm  so 
afraid  of  the  Inca.  I'm  not  properly  dressed  to  receive 
him;  and  he  is  so  particular:  he  would  order  me  to 
stay  in  my  room  for  a  week.  Tell  him  to  call  tomorrow: 
say  I'm  ill  in  bed.  I  can't:  I  won't:  I  daren't:  you 
must  get  rid  of  him  somehow. 

ERMYNTRUDE.    Lcavc  him  to  me.  Your  Highness. 

THE  PRINCESS.    You'd  ucvcr  dare! 

ERMYNTRUDE.  I  am  an  Enghshwoman,  Your  High- 
ness, and  perfectly  capable  of  tackling  ten  Incas  if 
necessary.  I  will  arrange  the  matter.  [To  the  Mana- 
ger.] Show  Her  Highness  to  her  bedroom;  and  then 
shew  Captain  Duval  in  here. 

THE  PRINCESS.  Oh,  thank  you  so  much.  [She  goes 
to  the  door.  Ermyntrude,  noticing  that  she  has  left  her 
hat  and  gloves  on  the  table,  runs  after  her  with  them.] 
Oh,  thank  you.    And  oh,  please,  if  I  must  have  one  of 


228  The  Inca  of  Perusalem 

his  sons,  I  should  Hke  a  fair  one  that  doesn't  shave, 
with  soft  hair  and  a  beard.  I  couldn't  bear  being  kissed 
by  a  bristly  person.  [^She  runs  out,  the  Manager  bow- 
ing as  she  passes.    He  follows  her^ 

Ermyntrude  whips  off  her  waterproof;  hides  it;  and 
gets  herself  swiftly  into  perfect  trim  at  the  mirror,  before 
the  Manager,  with  a  large  jewel  case  in  his  hand,  returns, 
ushering  in  the  Inca. 

THE  MANAGER.    Captain  Duval. 

The  Inca,  in  military  uniform,  advances  with  a  marked 
and  imposing  stage  walk;  stops;  orders  the  trembling 
Manager  by  a  gesture  to  place  the  jewel  case  on  the  table; 
dismisses  him  with  a  frown;  touches  his  helmet  graciously 
to  Ermyntrude;  and  takes  off  his  cloak. 

THE  INCA.  I  beg  you,  madam,  to  be  quite  at  your 
ease,  and  to  speak  to  me  without  ceremony. 

ERMYNTRUDE  [moving  haughtily  and  carelessly  to  the 
table'].  I  hadn't  the  slightest  intention  of  treating  you 
with  ceremony.  [^She  sits  down:  a  liberty  which  gives 
him  a  perceptible  shock. ~]  I  am  quite  at  a  loss  to  imagine 
why  I  should  treat  a  perfect  stranger  named  Duval:  a 
captain!  almost  a  subaltern!  with  the  smallest  cere- 
mony. 

THE  INCA.  That  is  true.  I  had  for  the  moment  for- 
gotten my  position. 

ERMYNTRUDE.  It  docsu't  matter.  You  may  sit 
down. 

THE  INCA  [Jrouming].    What! 

ERMYNTRUDE.  I  Said,  you  .  .  .  may  .  .  .  sit  .  .  . 
down. 

THE  INCA.  Oh.  [_His  moustache  droops.  He  sits 
down.'] 

ERMYNTRUDE.    What  is  youF  business? 

THE  INCA.  I  come  on  behalf  of  the  Inca  of  Peru- 
salem. 

ERMYNTRUDE.    The  Allcrhochst? 


The  Inca  of  Perusalem  229 

THE  INCA.    Precisely. 

ERMYNTRUDE.  I  wonder  does  he  feel  ridiculous  when 
people  call  him  the  AUerhochst. 

THE  INCA  [^surprised}.  Why  should  he?  He  is  the 
AUerhochst. 

ERMYNTRUDE.    Is  he  iiicc  lookiiig? 

THE  INCA.  I  —  er.  Er  —  I.  I  —  er.  I  am  not  a 
good  judge. 

ERMYNTRUDE.  They  Say  he  takes  himself  very 
seriously. 

THE  INCA.  Why  should  he  not,  madam?  Providence 
has  entrusted  to  his  family  the  care  of  a  mighty  em- 
pire. He  is  in  a  position  of  half  divine,  half  paternal 
responsibility  towards  sixty  millions  of  people,  whose 
duty  it  is  to  die  for  him  at  the  word  of  command.  To 
take  himself  otherwise  than  seriously  would  be  blas- 
phemous. It  is  a  punishable  offence  —  severely  punish- 
able—  in  Perusalem.    It  is  called  Incadisparagement. 

ERMYNTRUDE.    How  chcerful!    Can  he  laugh? 

THE  INCA.  Certainly,  madam.  [^He  laughs^  harshly 
and  mirthlessly.']    Ha  ha!    Ha  ha  ha! 

ERMYNTRUDE  [Jrigidly'].  I  asked  could  the  Inca 
laugh.    I  did  not  ask  could  you  laugh. 

THE  INCA.  That  is  true,  madam.  [Chuckling^ 
Devilish  amusing,  that!  [Jle  laughs,  genially  and  sin- 
cerely, and  becomes  a  much  more  agreeable  person.] 
Pardon  me:  I  am  now  laughing  because  I  cannot  help 
it.  I  am  amused.  The  other  was  merely  an  imitation: 
a  failure,  I  admit. 

ERMYNTRUDE.  You  Intimated  that  you  had  some 
business? 

THE  INCA  [^producing  a  very  large  jewel  case,  and  re- 
lapsing into  solemnity].  I  am  instructed  by  the  AUer- 
hochst to  take  a  careful  note  of  your  features  and 
figure,  and,  if  I  consider  them  satisfactory,  to  present 
you  with  this  trifling  token  of  His  Imperial  Majesty*s 


230  The  Inca  of  Perusalem 

regard.  I  do  consider  them  satisfactory.  Allow  me  ^he 
opens  the  jewel  case  and  presents  it^. 

ERMYNTRUDE  [^staHng  at  the  contents'].  What  awful 
taste  he  must  have!    I  can't  wear  that. 

THE  INCA  [reddening'].  Take  care,  madam!  This 
brooch  was  designed  by  the  Inca  himself.  Allow  me  to 
explain  the  design.  In  the  centre,  the  shield  of  Armi- 
nius.  The  ten  surrounding  medallions  represent  the 
ten  castles  of  His  Majesty.  The  rim  is  a  piece  of  the 
telephone  cable  laid  by  His  Majesty  across  the  Ships- 
keel  canal.  The  pin  is  a  model  in  miniature  of  the 
sword  of  Henry  the  Birdcatcher. 

ERMYNTRUDE.  Miniature!  It  must  be  bigger  than 
the  original.  My  good  man,  you  don't  expect  me  to 
wear  this  round  my  neck:  it's  as  big  as  a  turtle.  [He 
shuts  the  case  loith  an  angry  snap.]  How  much  did  it 
cost? 

THE  INCA.  For  materials  and  manufacture  alone, 
half  a  million  Perusalem  dollars,  madam.  The  Inca's 
design  constitutes  it  a  work  of  art.  As  such,  it  is  now 
worth  probably  ten  million  dollars. 

ERMYNTRUDE.  Givc  it  to  me  [she  snatches  it].  I'll 
pawn  it  and  buy  something  nice  with  the  money. 

THE  INCA.  Impossible,  madam.  A  design  by  the 
Inca  must  not  be  exhibited  for  sale  in  the  shop  window 
of  a  pawnbroker.  [He  flings  himself  into  his  chair, 
fuming.] 

ERMYNTRUDE.  So  much  the  better.  The  Inca  will 
have  to  redeem  it  to  save  himself  from  that  disgrace; 
and  the  poor  pawnbroker  will  get  his  money  back. 
Nobody  would  buy  it,  you  know. 

THE  INCA.    May  I  ask  why? 

ERMYNTRUDE.  Well,  look  at  it!  Just  look  at  it!  I 
ask  you ! 

THE  INCA  [his  moustache  drooping  ominously],  I  am 
sorry  to  have  to  report  to  the  Inca  that  you  have  no 


The  Inca  of  Perusalem  231 

soul  for  fine  art.  \^He  rises  sulhily,~]  The  position  of 
daughter-in-law  to  the  Inca  is  not  compatible  with  the 
tastes  of  a  pig.    \_He  attempts  to  take  back  the  brooch.'] 

ERMYNTRUDE  [rising  and  retreating  behind  her  chair 
with  the  brooch].  Here!  you  let  that  brooch  alone. 
You  presented  it  to  me  on  behaK  of  the  Inca.  It  is 
mine.    You  said  my  appearance  was  satisfactory. 

THE  INCA.  Your  appearance  is  not  satisfactory.  The 
Inca  would  not  allow  his  son  to  marry  you  if  the  boy 
were  on  a  desert  island  and  you  were  the  only  other 
human  being  on  it  [he  strides  up  the  room]. 

ERMYNTRUDE  [calmly  sitting  down  and  replacing  the 
case  on  the  table].  How  could  he?  There  would  be  no 
clergyman  to  marry  us.  It  would  have  to  be  quite 
morganatic. 

THE  INCA  [returning].  Such  an  expression  is  out  of 
place  in  the  mouth  of  a  princess  aspiring  to  the  highest 
destiny  on  earth.  You  have  the  morals  of  a  dragoon. 
[She  receives  this  with  a  shriek  of  laughter.  He  struggles 
with  his  sense  of  humor.]  At  the  same  time  [he  sits 
dovm]  there  is  a  certain  coarse  fun  in  the  idea  which 
compels  me  to  smile  [he  turns  up  his  moustache  and 
smiles]. 

ERMYNTRUDE.  When  I  marry  the  Inca's  son,  Cap- 
tain, I  shall  make  the  Inca  order  you  to  cut  off  that 
moustache.  It  is  too  irresistible.  Doesn't  it  fascinate 
everyone  in  Perusalem? 

THE  INCA  [leaning  forward  to  her  energetically].  By 
all  the  thunders  of  Thor,  madam,  it  fascinates  the  whole 
world. 

ERMYNTRUDE.  What  I  like  about  you,  Captain  Du- 
val, is  your  modesty. 

THE  INCA  [straightening  up  suddenly].  Woman,  do 
not  be  a  fool. 

ERMYNTRUDE  [indignant].    Well! 

THE  INCA.    You  must  look  facts  in  the  face.    This 


232  The  Inca  of  Perusalem 

moustache  is  an  exact  copy  of  the  Inca's  moustache. 
Well,  does  the  world  occupy  itself  with  the  Inca's 
moustache  or  does  it  not?  Does  it  ever  occupy  itself 
with  anything  else?  If  that  is  the  truth,  does  its  recog- 
nition constitute  the  Inca  a  coxcomb?  Other  poten- 
tates have  moustaches:  even  beards  and  moustaches. 
Does  the  world  occupy  itself  with  those  beards  and 
moustaches?  Do  the  hawkers  in  the  streets  of  every 
capital  on  the  civilized  globe  sell  ingenious  cardboard 
representations  of  their  faces  on  which,  at  the  pulling 
of  a  simple  string,  the  moustaches  turn  up  and  down, 
so  —  IJie  makes  his  moustache  turn  up  and  down  several 
times'y^  No!  I  say  No.  The  Inca's  moustache  is  so 
watched  and  studied  that  it  has  made  his  face  the 
political  barometer  of  the  whole  continent.  When  that 
moustache  goes  up,  culture  rises  with  it.  Not  what 
you  call  culture;  but  Kultur,  a  word  so  much  more 
significant  that  I  hardly  understand  it  myself  except 
when  I  am  in  specially  good  form.  When  it  goes  down, 
millions  of  men  perish. 

ERMYNTRUDE.  You  kuow,  if  I  had  a  moustache  like 
that,  it  would  turn  my  head.  I  should  go  mad.  Are 
you  quite  sure  the  Inca  isn't  mad? 

THE  INCA.  How  can  he  be  mad,  madam?  What  is 
sanity?  The  condition  of  the  Inca's  mind.  What  is 
madness?  The  condition  of  the  people  who  disagree 
with  the  Inca. 

ERMYNTRUDE.  Then  I  am  a  lunatic  because  I  don't 
like  that  ridiculous  brooch. 

THE  INCA.    No,  madam:  you  are  only  an  idiot. 

ERMYNTRUDE.    Thank  you. 

THE  INCA.  Mark  you:  it  is  not  to  be  expected  that 
you  should  see  eye  to  eye  with  the  Inca.  That  would 
be  presumption.  It  is  for  you  to  accept  without  ques- 
tion or  demur  the  assurance  of  your  Inca  that  the 
brooch  is  a  masterpiece. 


The  Inca  of  Perusalem  233 

ERMYNTRTTDE.  My  Inca!  Oh,  come!  I  Kke  that. 
He  is  not  my  Inca  yet. 

THE  INCA.  He  is  everybody's  Inca,  madam.  His 
realm  will  yet  extend  to  the  confines  of  the  habitable 
earth.  It  is  his  divine  right;  and  let  those  who  dispute 
it  look  to  themselves.  Properly  speaking,  all  those 
who  are  now  trying  to  shake  his  world  predominance 
are  not  at  war  with  him,  but  in  rebellion  against  him. 

ERMYNTRUDE.    Well,  he  started  it,  you  know. 

THE  INCA.  Madam,  be  just.  When  the  hunters  sur- 
round the  lion,  the  lion  will  spring.  The  Inca  had  kept 
the  peace  of  years.  Those  who  attacked  him  were 
steeped  in  blood,  black  blood,  white  blood,  brown 
blood,  yellow  blood,  blue  blood.  The  Inca  had  never 
shed  a  drop. 

ERMYNTRUDE.    He  had  only  talked. 

THE  INCA.  Only  talked!  Only  talked!  What  is  more 
glorious  than  talk?  Can  anyone  in  the  world  talk  like 
him?  Madam,  when  he  signed  the  declaration  of  war, 
he  said  to  his  foohsh  generals  and  admirals,  *  Gentle- 
men, you  will  all  be  sorry  for  this.'  And  they  are. 
They  know  now  that  they  had  better  have  relied  on 
the  sword  of  the  spirit:  in  other  words,  on  their  Inca's 
talk,  than  on  their  murderous  cannons.  The  world 
will  one  day  do  justice  to  the  Inca  as  the  man  who 
kept  the  peace  with  nothing  but  his  tongue  and  his 
moustache.  While  he  talked:  talked  just  as  I  am 
talking  now  to  you,  simply,  quietly,  sensibly,  but 
GREATLY,  there  was  peace;  there  was  prosperity; 
Perusalem  went  from  success  to  success.  He  has  been 
silenced  for  a  year  by  the  roar  of  trinitrotoluene  and 
the  bluster  of  fools;  and  the  world  is  in  ruins.  What 
a  tragedy!    [_He  is  convulsed  vnth  grief.'] 

ERMYNTRUDE.  Captain  Duval,  I  don't  want  to  be 
unsympathetic;  but  suppose  we  get  back  to  business. 

THE  INCA.    Business!    What  business? 


234  The  Inca  of  Perusalem 

ERMYNTRUDE.  Well,  my  business.  You  want  me 
to  marry  one  of  the  Inca's  sons:  I  forget  which. 

THE  INCA.  As  far  as  I  can  recollect  the  name,  it  is 
His  Imperial  Highness  Prince  Eitel  WilUam  Frederick 
George  Franz  Josef  Alexander  Nicholas  Victor  Em- 
manuel Albert  Theodore  Wilson  — 

ERMYNTRUDE  [interrupting].  Oh,  please,  please, 
mayn't  I  have  one  with  a  shorter  name.^^  What  is  he 
called  at  home? 

THE  INCA.  He  is  usually  called  Sonny,  madam. 
[With  great  charm  of  manner.']  But  you  will  please 
understand  that  the  Inca  has  no  desire  to  pin  you  to 
any  particular  son.  There  is  Chips  and  Spots  and 
Lulu  and  Pongo  and  the  Corsair  and  the  Piffler  and 
Jack  Johnson  the  Second,  all  unmarried.  At  least  not 
seriously  married:  nothing,  in  short,  that  cannot  be 
arranged.    They  are  all  at  your  service. 

ERMYNTRUDE.  Are  they  all  as  clever  and  charming 
as  their  father? 

THE  INCA  [lifts  his  eyebrows  pityingly;  shrugs  his 
shoulders;  then^  with  indulgent  paternal  contempt].  Ex- 
cellent lads,  madam.  Very  honest  affectionate  crea- 
tures. I  have  nothing  against  them.  Pongo  imitates 
farmyard  sounds  —  cock  crowing  and  that  sort  of 
thing  —  extremely  well.  Lulu  plays  Strauss's  Sinfonia 
Domestica  on  the  mouth  organ  really  screamingly. 
Chips  keeps  owls  and  rabbits.  Spots  motor  bicycles. 
The  Corsair  commands  canal  barges  and  steers  them 
himself.  The  Piffler  writes  plays,  and  paints  most 
abominably.  Jack  Johnson  trims  ladies'  hats,  and  boxes 
with  professionals  hired  for  that  purpose.  He  is  in- 
variably victorious.  Yes:  they  all  have  their  different 
little  talents.  And  also,  of  course,  their  family 
resemblances.  For  example,  they  all  smoke;  they 
all  quarrel  with  one  another;  and  they  none  of  them 
appreciate    their   father,    who,    by    the    way,    is    no 


The  Inca  of  Perusalem  235 

mean  painter,  though  the  Piffler  pretends  to  ridicule 
his  efforts. 

ERMYNTRUDE.    Quite  a  large  choice,  eh? 

THE  INCA.  But  very  little  to  choose,  believe  me.  I 
should  not  recommend  Pongo,  because  he  snores  so 
frightfully  that  it  has  been  necessary  to  build  him  a 
sound-proof  bedroom:  otherwise  the  royal  family 
would  get  no  sleep.  But  any  of  the  others  would  suit 
equally  well  —  if  you  are  really  bent  on  marrying  one 
of  them. 

ERMYNTRUDE.  If!  What  is  this?  I  never  wanted 
to  marry  one  of  them.    I  thought  you  wanted  me  to. 

THE  INCA.  I  did,  madam;  h\xt  {confidentially yflatter' 
ing  her\  you  are  not  quite  the  sort  of  person  I  expected 
you  to  be;  and  I  doubt  whether  any  of  these  young 
degenerates  would  make  you  happy.  I  trust  I  am  not 
showing  any  want  of  natural  feeling  when  I  say  that 
from  the  point  of  view  of  a  lively,  accomplished,  and 
beautiful  woman  \_Ermyntrude  h(yws~\  they  might  pall 
after  a  time.  I  suggest  that  you  might  prefer  the  Inca 
himself. 

ERMYNTRUDE.  Oh,  Captain,  how  could  a  humble 
person  like  myself  be  of  any  interest  to  a  prince  who  is 
surrounded  with  the  ablest  and  most  far-reaching  in- 
tellects in  the  world? 

THE  INCA  {explosively'].  What  on  earth  are  you  talk- 
ing about,  madam?  Can  you  name  a  single  man  in  the 
entourage  of  the  Inca  who  is  not  a  born  fool? 

ERMYNTRUDE.  Oh,  how  cau  you  say  that!  There  is 
Admiral  von  Cockpits  — 

THE  INCA  [rising  intolerantly  and  striding  about  the 
roorn].  Von  Cockpits !  Madam,  if  Von  Cockpits  ever 
goes  to  heaven,  before  three  weeks  are  over  the  Angel 
Gabriel  will  be  at  war  with  the  man  in  the  moon. 

ERMYNTRUDE.    But  General  Von  Schinkenburg  — 

THE  INCA.     Schinkenburg!    I  grant  you,  Schinken- 


236  The  Inca  of  Perusalem 

burg  has  a  genius  for  defending  market  gardens. 
Among  market  gardens  he  is  invincible.  But  what  is 
the  good  of  that?  The  world  does  not  consist  of  mar- 
ket gardens.  Turn  him  loose  in  pasture  and  he  is  lost. 
The  Inca  has  defeated  all  these  generals  again  and 
again  at  manoeuvres;  and  yet  he  has  to  give  place  to 
them  in  the  field  because  he  would  be  blamed  for  every 
disaster  —  accused  of  sacrificing  the  coimtry  to  his 
vanity.  Vanity!  Why  do  they  call  him  vain.f*  Just 
because  he  is  one  of  the  few  men  who  are  not  afraid  to 
live.  Why  do  they  call  themselves  brave?  Because 
they  have  not  sense  enough  to  be  afraid  to  die.  Within 
the  last  year  the  world  has  produced  millions  of  heroes. 
Has  it  produced  more  than  one  Inca?  [He  resumes  his 
seat.2 

ERMYNTRUDE.  Fortunately  not.  Captain.  I'd  rather 
marry  Chips. 

THE  INCA  [making  a  wry  face'}.  Chips!  Oh  no:  I 
wouldn't  marry  Chips. 

ERMYNTRUDE.     Why? 

THE  INCA  [whispering  the  secret].  Chips  talks  too 
much  about  himseK. 

ERMYNTRUDE.    Well,  what  about  Snooks? 

THE  INCA.  Snooks?  Who  is  he?  Have  I  a  son 
named  Snooks?  There  are  so  many  —  [wearily]  so 
many  —  that  I  often  forget.  [Casually.]  But  I 
wouldn't  marry  him,  anyhow,  if  I  were  you. 

ERMYNTRUDE.  But  hasu't  any  of  them  inherited  the 
family  genius?  Surely,  if  Providence  has  entrusted 
them  with  the  care  of  Perusalem  —  if  they  are  all 
descended  from  Bedrock  the  Great  — 

THE  INCA  [interrupting  her  impatiently].  Madam,  if 
you  ask  me,  I  consider  Bedrock  a  grossly  overrated 
monarch. 

ERMYNTRUDE  [shockcd].  Oh,  Captain!  Take  care! 
Incadisparagement. 


The  Inca  of  Perusalem  237 

THE  INCA.  I  repeat,  grossly  overrated.  Strictly  be- 
tween ourselves,  I  do  not  believe  all  this  about  Provi- 
dence entrusting  the  care  of  sixty  million  human 
beings  to  the  abilities  of  Chips  and  the  Piffler  and  Jack 
Johnson.  I  believe  in  individual  genius.  That  is  the 
Inca's  secret.  It  must  be.  Why,  hang  it  all,  madam, 
if  it  were  a  mere  family  matter,  the  Inca*s  uncle  would 
have  been  as  great  a  man  as  the  Inca.  And  —  well, 
everybody  knows  what  the  Inca's  uncle  was. 

ERMYNTRUDE.  My  experience  is  that  the  relatives  of 
men  of  genius  are  always  the  greatest  duffers  imagin- 
able. 

THE  INCA.  Precisely.  That  is  what  proves  that  the 
Inca  is  a  man  of  genius.    His  relatives  are  duffers. 

ERMYNTRUDE.  But  blcss  my  soul.  Captain,  if  all  the 
Inca's  generals  are  incapables,  and  all  his  relatives 
duffers,  Perusalem  will  be  beaten  in  the  war;  and  then 
it  will  become  a  republic,  Uke  France  after  1871,  and 
the  Inca  will  be  sent  to  St  Helena. 

THE  INCA  [triumphantly].  That  is  just  what  the  Inca 
is  playing  for,  madam.  It  is  why  he  consented  to  the 
war. 

ERMYNTRUDE.      What! 

THE  INCA.  Aha!  The  fools  talk  of  crushing  the  Inca; 
but  they  little  know  their  man.  Tell  me  this.  Why 
did  St  Helena  extinguish  Napoleon? 

ERMYNTRUDE.      I  givC  it  Up. 

THE  INCA.  Because,  madam,  with  certain  rather  re- 
markable qualities,  which  I  should  be  the  last  to  deny. 
Napoleon  lacked  versatility.  After  all,  any  fool  can 
be  a  soldier:  we  know  that  only  too  well  in  Perusalem, 
where  every  fool  is  a  soldier.  But  the  Inca  has  a  thou- 
sand other  resources.  He  is  an  architect.  Well,  St 
Helena  presents  an  unlimited  field  to  the  architect. 
He  is  a  painter:  need  I  remind  you  that  St  Helena  is 
still  without  a  National  Gallery?    He  is  a  composer: 


238  The  Inca  of  Perusalem 

Napoleon  left  no  symphonies  in  St  Helena.  Send  the 
Inca  to  St  Helena,  madam,  and  the  world  will  crowd 
thither  to  see  his  works  as  they  crowd  now  to  Athens 
to  see  the  Acropolis,  to  Madrid  to  see  the  pictures  of 
Velasquez,  to  Bayreuth  to  see  the  music  dramas  of 
that  egotistical  old  rebel  Richard  Wagner,  who  ought 
to  have  been  shot  before  he  was  forty,  as  indeed  he 
very  nearly  was.  Take  this  from  me:  hereditary  mon- 
archs  are  played  out:  the  age  for  men  of  genius  has 
come:  the  career  is  open  to  the  talents:  before  ten 
years  have  elapsed  every  civilized  country  from  the 
Carpathians  to  the  Rocky  Mountains  will  be  a  Re- 
public. 

ERMYNTRUDE.    Then  goodbyc  to  the  Inca. 

THE  INCA.  On  the  contrary,  madam,  the  Inca  will 
then  have  his  first  real  chance.  He  will  be  unanimously 
invited  by  those  Republics  to  return  from  his  exile  and 
act  as  Superpresident  of  all  the  repubUcs. 

ERMYNTRUDE.  But  wou't  that  be  a  come-down  for 
him?  Think  of  it!  after  being  Inca,  to  be  a  mere 
President! 

THE  INCA.  Well,  why  not!  An  Inca  can  do  nothing. 
He  is  tied  hand  and  foot.  A  constitutional  monarch  is 
openly  called  an  india-rubber  stamp.  An  emperor  is  a 
puppet.  The  Inca  is  not  allowed  to  make  a  speech: 
he  is  compelled  to  take  up  a  screed  of  flatulent  twaddle 
written  by  some  noodle  of  a  minister  and  read  it  aloud. 
But  look  at  the  American  President!  He  is  the  AUer- 
hochst,  if  you  like.  No,  madam,  believe  me,  there  is 
nothing  like  Democracy,  American  Democracy.  Give 
the  people  voting  papers:  good  long  voting  papers, 
American  fashion;  and  while  the  people  are  reading 
the  voting  papers  the  Government  does  what  it 
likes. 

ERMYNTRUDE.  What!  You  too  worship  before  the 
statue  of  Liberty,  like  the  Americans? 


The  Inca  of  Perusalem  239 

THE  INCA.  Not  at  all,  madam.  The  Americans  do 
not  worship  the  statue  of  Liberty.  They  have  erected 
it  in  the  proper  place  for  a  statue  of  Liberty:  on  its 
tomb  [he  turns  down  his  moustaches']. 

ERMYNTRUDE  [laughing'].  Oh!  You'd  better  not 
let  them  hear  you  say  that,  Captain. 

THE  INCA.  Quite  safe,  madam:  they  would  take  it 
as  a  joke.  [He  rises.]  And  now,  prepare  yourseK  for 
a  surprise.  [She  rises.]  A  shock.  Brace  yourself. 
Steel  yourself.    And  do  not  be  afraid. 

ERMYNTRUDE.  Whatever  on  earth  can  you  be  going 
to  tell  me.  Captain? 

THE  INCA.    Madam,  I  am  no  captain.    I  — 

ERMYNTRUDE.    You  are  the  Inca  in  disguise. 

THE  INCA.  Good  heavens!  how  do  you  know  that? 
Who  has  betrayed  me? 

ERMYNTRUDE.  How  could  I  help  diviuing  it.  Sir? 
Who  is  there  in  the  world  like  you?   Your  magnetism  — 

THE  INCA.  True:  I  had  forgotten  my  magnetism. 
But  you  know  now  that  beneath  the  trappings  of  Im- 
perial Majesty  there  is  a  Man:  simple,  frank,  modest, 
unaffected,  colloquial:  a  sincere  friend,  a  natural  hu- 
man being,  a  genial  comrade,  one  eminently  calculated 
to  make  a  woman  happy.  You,  on  the  other  hand,  are 
the  most  charming  woman  I  have  ever  met.  Your 
conversation  is  wonderful.  I  have  sat  here  almost  in 
silence,  listening  to  your  shrewd  and  penetrating  ac- 
count of  my  character,  my  motives,  if  I  may  say  so, 
my  talents.  Never  has  such  justice  been  done  me: 
never  have  I  experienced  such  perfect  sympathy.  Will 
you  —  I  hardly  know  how  to  put  this  —  will  you  be 


mmer 


ERMYNTRUDE.    Oh,  Sir,  you  are  married. 

THE  INCA.  I  am  prepared  to  embrace  the  Mahome- 
tan faith,  which  allows  a  man  four  wives,  if  you  will 
consent.    It  will  please  the  Turks.    But  I  had  rather 


240  The  Inca  of  Perusalem' 

you  did  not  mention  it  to  the  Inca-ess.  if  you  don't 
mind. 

ERMYNTRUDE.  This  is  really  charming  of  you.  But 
the  time  has  come  for  me  to  make  a  revelation. 
It  is  your  Imperial  Majesty's  turn  now  to  brace 
yourself.  To  steel  yourself.  I  am  not  the  princess. 
I  am  — 

THE  INCA.  The  daughter  of  my  old  friend  Arch- 
deacon Daffodil  Donkin,  whose  sermons  are  read  to 
me  every  evening  after  dinner.    I  never  forget  a  face. 

ERMYNTRUDE.    You  kucw  all  along! 

THE  INCA  [bitterly,  throwing  himself  into  his  chair']. 
And  you  supposed  that  I,  who  have  been  condemned 
to  the  society  of  princesses  all  my  wretched  life,  be- 
lieved for  a  moment  that  any  princess  that  ever  walked 
could  have  your  intelligence! 

ERMYNTRUDE.  How  clcvcr  of  you.  Sir!  But  you 
cannot  afford  to  marry  me. 

THE  INCA  [springing  up}.    Why  not? 

ERMYNTRUDE.  You  are  too  poor.  You  have  to  eat 
war  bread.  Kings  nowadays  belong  to  the  poorer 
classes.  The  King  of  England  does  not  even  allow 
himself  wine  at  dinner. 

THE  INCA  [delighted].  Haw!  Ha  ha!  Haw!  haw! 
[He  is  convidsed  with  laughter,  and  finally  has  to  relieve 
his  feelings  by  waltzing  half  round  the  room^ 

ERMYNTRUDE.  You  may  laugh,  Sir;  but  I  really 
could  not  live  in  that  style.  I  am  the  widow  of  a  mil- 
lionaire, ruined  by  your  little  war. 

THE  INCA.  A  millionaire!  What  are  millionaires 
now,  with  the  world  crumbling? 

ERMYNTRUDE.  Excusc  me:  mine  was  a  hyphenated 
millionaire. 

THE  INCA.  A  highfalutin  milhonaire,  you  mean. 
[ChuMing].  Haw!  ha  ha!  really  very  nearly  a  pun, 
that.    [He  sits  down  in  her  chair,] 


The  Inca  of  Perusalem  241 

ERMYNTRUDE  [revolted,  sinking  into  his  chair}.  I 
think  it  quite  the  worst  pun  I  ever  heard. 

THE  INCA.  The  best  puns  have  all  been  made  years 
ago:  nothing  remained  but  to  achieve  the  worst. 
However,  madam  [he  rises  majestically;  and  she  is 
about  to  rise  also}.  No:  I  prefer  a  seated  audience  [she 
falls  back  into  her  seat  at  the  imperious  wave  of  his  hand]. 
So  [he  clicks  his  heels'}.  Madam,  I  recognize  my  pre- 
sumption in  having  sought  the  honor  of  your  hand. 
As  you  say,  I  cannot  afford  it.  Victorious  as  I  am,  I 
am  hopelessly  bankrupt;  and  the  worst  of  it  is,  I  am 
intelligent  enough  to  know  it.  And  I  shall  be  beaten 
in  consequence,  because  my  most  implacable  enemy, 
though  only  a  few  months  further  away  from  bank- 
ruptcy than  myself,  has  not  a  ray  of  intelligence,  and 
will  go  on  fighting  until  civilization  is  destroyed,  un- 
less I,  out  of  sheer  pity  for  the  world,  condescend  to 
capitulate. 

ERMYNTRUDE.  The  sooucr  the  better.  Sir.  Many 
fine  young  men  are  dying  while  you  wait. 

THE  INCA  [flinching  painfully}.  Why?  Why  do 
they  do  it? 

ERMYNTRUDE.    Bccausc  you  make  them. 

THE  INCA.  Stuff!  How  cau  I?  I  am  only  one  man; 
and  they  are  millions.  Do  you  suppose  they  would 
really  kill  each  other  if  they  didn't  want  to,  merely  for 
the  sake  of  my  beautiful  eyes?  Do  not  be  deceived  by 
newspaper  claptrap,  madam.  I  was  swept  away  by  a 
passion  not  my  own,  which  imposed  itseft  on  me.  By 
myself  I  am  nothing.  I  dare  not  walk  down  the  prin- 
cipal street  of  my  own  capital  in  a  coat  two  years  old, 
though  the  sweeper  of  that  street  can  wear  one  ten 
years  old.  You  talk  of  death  as  an  unpopular  thing. 
You  are  wrong:  for  years  I  gave  them  art,  literature, 
science,  prosperity,  that  they  might  live  more  abund- 
antly;   and  they  hated  me,  ridiculed  me,  caricatured 


242  The  Inca  of  Perusalem 

me.  Now  that  I  give  them  death  in  its  frightfuUest 
forms,  they  are  devoted  to  me.  If  you  doubt  me,  ask 
those  who  for  years  have  begged  our  taxpayers  in  vain 
for  a  few  paltry  thousands  to  spend  on  Life:  on  the 
bodies  and  minds  of  the  nation's  children,  on  the 
beauty  and  healthfulness  of  its  cities,  on  the  honor  and 
comfort  of  its  worn-out  workers.  They  refused:  and 
because  they  refused,  death  is  let  loose  on  them.  They 
grudged  a  few  hundreds  a  year  for  their  salvation: 
they  now  pay  milHons  a  day  for  their  own  destruc- 
tion and  damnation.  And  this  they  call  my  doing! 
Let  them  say  it,  if  they  dare,  before  the  judgment-seat 
at  which  they  and  I  shall  answer  at  last  for  what  we 
have  left  undone  no  less  than  for  what  we  have  done. 
{Pulling  himself  together  suddenly.']  Madam,  I  have 
the  honor  to  be  your  most  obedient  {he  clicks  his  heels 
and  hows~\. 

ERMYNTRUDE.    Sir!  {She  curtsies.'] 

THE  INCA  {turning  at  the  door].  Oh,  by  the  way, 
there  is  a  princess,  isn't  there,  somewhere  on  the 
premises? 

ERMYNTRUDE.    There  is.    Shall  I  fetch  her? 

THE  INCA  {dubious].    Pretty  awful,  I  suppose,  eh? 

ERMYNTRUDE.    About  the  usual  thing. 

THE  INCA  {sighing].  Ah  well!  What  can  one  expect? 
I  don't  think  I  need  trouble  her  personally.  Will  you 
explain  to  her  about  the  boys? 

ERMYNTRUDE.  I  am  afraid  the  explanation  will  fall 
rather  flat  without  your  magnetism. 

THE  INCA  {returning  to  her  and  speaking  very  hu- 
manly]. You  are  making  fun  of  me.  Why  does  every- 
body make  fun  of  me?    Is  it  fair? 

ERMYNTRUDE  {seriously].  Yes,  it  is  fair.  What  other 
defence  have  we  poor  common  people  against  your 
shining  armor,  your  mailed  fist,  your  pomp  and  parade, 
your  terrible  power  over  us?    Are  these  things  fair? 


The  Inca  of  Perusalem  243 

THE  INCA.  Ah,  well,  perhaps,  perhaps.  \^He  looks  at 
his  watchr\  By  the  way,  there  is  time  for  a  drive  round 
the  town  and  a  cup  of  tea  at  the  Zoo.  Quite  a  bearable 
band  there:  it  does  not  play  any  patriotic  airs.  I  am 
sorry  you  will  not  listen  to  any  more  permanent  ar- 
rangement;  but  if  you  would  care  to  come  — 

ERMYNTRUDE  [eagerly}.  Ratherrrrrr.  I  shall  be  de- 
lighted. 

THE  INCA  [cautiously].  In  the  strictest  honor,  you 
understand. 

ERMYNTRUDE.  Don*t  be  afraid.  I  promise  to  refuse 
any  incorrect  proposals. 

THE  ii^cA  [enchanted].  Oh!  Charming  woman :  how 
well  you  understand  men! 

He  offers  her  his  arm:  they  go  out  together. 


AUGUSTUS  DOES  HIS  BIT 
XXX 


I  WISH  to  express  my  gratitude  for  certain  good 
oflBces  which  Augustus  secured  for  me  in  January,  1917. 
I  had  been  invited  to  visit  the  theatre  of  war  in  Flan- 
ders by  the  Commander-in-Chief:  an  invitation  which 
was,  under  the  circumstances,  a  summons  to  duty. 
Thus  I  had  occasion  to  spend  some  days  in  procuring 
the  necessary  passports  and  other  official  facilities  for 
my  journey.  It  happened  just  then  that  the  Stage 
Society  gave  a  performance  of  this  little  play.  It 
opened  the  heart  of  every  official  to  me.  I  have  always 
been  treated  with  distinguished  consideration  in  my 
contracts  with  bureaucracy  during  the  war;  but  on 
this  occasion  I  found  myself  'persona  grata  in  the  highest 
degree.  There  was  only  one  word  when  the  formalities 
were  disposed  of;  and  that  was  "We  are  up  against 
Augustus  all  day."  The  showing-up  of  Augustus 
scandalized  one  or  two  innocent  and  patriotic  critics 
who  regarded  the  prowess  of  the  British  army  as  in- 
extricably bound  up  with  Highcastle  prestige.  But 
our  Government  departments  knew  better:  their 
problem  was  how  to  win  the  war  with  Augustus  on 
their  backs,  well-meaning,  brave,  patriotic,  but  ob- 
structively fussy,  seK-important,  imbecile,  and  dis- 
astrous. 

Save  for  the  satisfaction  of  being  able  to  laugh  at 
Augustus  in  the  theatre,  nothing,  as  far  as  I  know, 
came  of  my  dramatic  reduction  of  him  to  absurdity. 
Generals,  admirals,  Prime  Ministers  and  Controllers, 
not  to  mention  Emperors,  Kaisers  and  Tsars,  were 
scrapped  remorselessly  at  home  and  abroad,  for  their 
sins  or  services,  as  the  case  might  be.  But  Augustus 
stood  like  the  Eddystone  in  a  storm,  and  stands  so  to 
this  day.  He  gave  us  his  word  that  he  was  indispens- 
able and  we  took  it. 

247 


t^  Augustus  Does  His  Bit  was  performed  for  the 
first  time  at  the  Court  Theatre  in  London  by  the  Stage 
Society  on  the  %lst  January,  1917,  with  Lalla  Vander- 
velde  as  The  Lady,  F.  B.  J.  Sharp  as  Lord  Augustus 
Highcastle,  and  Charles  Rock  as  Horatio  Floyd  Beamish, 


AUGUSTUS  DOES  fflS  BIT 

The  Mayor's  parlor  in  the  Town  Hall  of  Little  Piffling- 
ton.  Lord  Augustus  Highcasthy  a  distinguished  member  of 
the  gcyverning  clasSy  in  the  uniform  of  a  colonel^  and  very 
well  preserved  at  forty-five^  is  comfortably  seated  at  a  writ- 
ing-table with  his  heels  on  it^  reading  The  Morning  Post, 
The  door  faces  him^  a  little  to  his  left,  at  the  other  side  of 
the  romn.  The  window  is  behind  him.  In  the  fireplace, 
a  gas  stove.  On  the  table  a  bell  button  and  a  telephone. 
Portraits  of  past  Mayors,  in  robes  and  gold  chains,  adorn 
the  walls.  An  elderly  clerk  with  a  short  white  beard  and 
whiskers,  and  a  very  red  nose,  shuffles  in, 

AUGUSTUS  {hastily  putting  aside  his  paper  and  replac- 
ing his  feet  on  the  floor~\.    Hullo!    Who  are  you? 

THE  CLERK.  The  staff  [a  slight  impediment  in  his 
speech  adds  to  the  impression  of  incompetence  produxied 
by  his  age  and  appearance^. 

AUGUSTUS.  You  the  staff!  What  do  you  mean, 
man? 

THE  CLERK.    What  I  Say.    There  ain't  anybody  else. 

AUGUSTUS.    Tush!    Where  are  the  others? 

THE  CLERK.    At  the  front. 

AUGUSTUS.  Quite  right.  Most  proper.  Why  aren't 
you  at  the  front? 

THE  CLERK.    Over  age.    Fifty-seven. 

AUGUSTUS.  But  you  can  still  do  your  bit.  Many  an 
older  man  is  in  the  G.R.'s,  or  volunteering  for  home 
defence. 

249 


250  Augustus  Does  His  Bit 

THE  CLERK.    I  have  volunteered. 

AUGUSTUS.    Then  why  are  you  not  in  uniform? 

THE  CLERK.  They  said  they  wouldn't  have  me  if  I 
was  given  away  with  a  pound  of  tea.  Told  me  to  go 
home  and  not  be  an  old  silly.  [_A  sense  of  unbearable 
wrong,  till  now  only  smouldering  in  kirn,  bursts  into 
flame.']  Young  Bill  Knight,  that  I  took  with  me,  got 
two  and  sevenpence.  I  got  nothing.  Is  it  justice? 
This  country  is  going  to  the  dogs,  if  you  ask  me. 

AUGUSTUS  {rising  indignantly].  I  do  not  ask  you, 
sir;  and  I  will  not  allow  you  to  say  such  things  in  my 
presence.  Our  statesmen  are  the  greatest  known  to 
history.  Our  generals  are  invincible.  Our  army  is  the 
admiration  of  the  world.  [Furiously!]  How  dare  you 
tell  me  that  the  country  is  going  to  the  dogs! 

THE  CLERK.  Why  did  they  give  young  Bill  Knight 
two  and  sevenpence,  and  not  give  me  even  my  tram 
fare?  Do  you  call  that  being  great  statesmen?  As 
good  as  robbing  me,  I  call  it. 

AUGUSTUS.  That's  enough.  Leave  the  room.  [He 
sits  down  and  takes  up  his  pen,  settling  himself  to  work. 
The  clerk  shuffles  to  the  door.  Augustus  adds,  with  cold 
politeness.]    Send  me  the  Secretary. 

THE  CLERK.  Vm  the  Secretary.  I  can't  leave  the 
room  and  send  myself  to  you  at  the  same  time,  can  I? 

AUGUSTUS,  Don't  be  insolent.  Where  is  the  gentle- 
man I  have  been  corresponding  with:  Mr  Horatio 
Floyd  Beamish? 

THE  CLERK  [returning  and  bounng].    Here.    Me. 

AUGUSTUS.  You!  Ridiculous.  What  right  have  you 
to  call  yourself  by  a  pretentious  name  of  that  sort? 

THE  CLERK.  You  may  drop  the  Horatio  Floyd. 
Beamish  is  good  enough  for  me. 

AUGUSTUS.  Is  there  nobody  else  to  take  my  in- 
structions? 

THE  CLERK.     It's  mc  or  nobody.    And  for  two  pins 


Augustus  Does  His  Bit  251 

I*d  chuck  it.  Don't  you  drive  me  too  far.  Old  uns 
like  me  is  up  in  the  world  now. 

AUGUSTUS.  If  we  were  not  at  war,  I  should  dis- 
charge you  on  the  spot  for  disrespectful  behavior.  But 
England  is  in  danger;  and  I  cannot  think  of  my  per- 
sonal dignity  at  such  a  moment.  [_Shouting  at  him.~\ 
Don't  you  think  of  yours,  either,  worm  that  you  are; 
or  I'll  have  you  arrested  under  the  Defence  of  the 
Realm  Act,  double  quick. 

THE  CLERK.  What  do  I  care  about  the  realm?  They 
done  me  out  of  two  and  seven  — 

AUGUSTUS.  Oh,  damn  your  two  and  seven!  Did 
you  receive  my  letters  .^^ 

THE   CLERK.      YcS. 

AUGUSTUS.  I  addressed  a  meeting  here  last  night  — 
went  straight  to  the  platform  from  the  train.  I  wrote 
to  you  that  I  should  expect  you  to  be  present  and  re- 
port yourself.    Why  did  you  not  do  so? 

THE  CLERK.  The  poHcc  wouldn't  let  me  on  the  plat- 
form. 

AUGUSTUS.    Did  you  tell  them  who  you  were? 

THE  CLERK.  They  knew  who  I  was.  That's  why 
they  wouldn't  let  me  up. 

AUGUSTUS.  This  is  too  silly  for  anything.  This 
town  wants  waking  up.  I  made  the  best  recruiting 
speech  I  ever  made  in  my  life;   and  not  a  man  joined. 

THE  CLERK.  What  did  you  expect?  You  told  them 
our  gallant  fellows  is  falling  at  the  rate  of  a  thousand 
a  day  in  the  big  push.  Dying  for  Little  Pifflington, 
you  says.  Come  and  take  their  places,  you  says. 
That  ain't  the  way  to  recruit. 

AUGUSTUS.  But  I  expressly  told  them  their  widows 
would  have  pensions. 

THE  CLERK.  I  heard  you.  Would  have  been  all 
right  if  it  had  been  the  widows  you  wanted  to  get 
round. 


252  Augustus  Does  His  Bit 

AUGUSTUS  [rising  angrily]-  This  town  is  inhabited 
by  dastards.  I  say  it  with  a  full  sense  of  responsibility, 
dastards!  They  call  themselves  Englishmen;  and  they 
are  afraid  to  fight. 

THE  CLERK.  Afraid  to  fight!  You  should  see  them 
on  a  Saturday  night. 

AUGUSTUS.  Yes,  they  fight  one  another;  but  they 
won't  fight  the  Germans. 

THE  CLERK.  They  got  grudges  again  one  another: 
how  can  they  have  grudges  again  the  Huns  that  they 
never  saw?  They've  no  imagination:  that's  what  it 
is.  Bring  the  Huns  here;  and  they'll  quarrel  with 
them  fast  enough. 

AUGUSTUS  [returning  to  his  seat  with  a  grunt  of  dis- 
gust]. Mf!  They'll  have  them  here  if  they're  not  care- 
ful. [Seated.]  Have  you  carried  out  my  orders  about 
the  war  savuig? 

THE  CLERK.      YcS. 

AUGUSTUS.  The  allowance  of  petrol  has  been  re- 
duced by  three  quarters? 

THE  CLERK.      It  haS. 

AUGUSTUS.  And  you  have  told  the  motor-car  people 
to  come  here  and  arrange  to  start  munition  work  now 
that  their  motor  business  is  stopped? 

THE  CLERK.  It  ain't  stopped.  They're  busier  than 
ever. 

AUGUSTUS.    Busy  at  what? 

THE  CLERK.    Making  small  cars. 

AUGUSTUS.    New  cars! 

THE  CLERK.  The  old  cars  only  do  twelve  miles  to 
the  gallon.  Everybody  has  to  have  a  car  that  will  do 
thirty-five  now. 

AUGUSTUS.    Can't  they  take  the  train? 

THE  CLERK.  There  ain't  no  trains  now.  They've 
tore  up  the  rails  and  sent  them  to  the  front. 

AUGUSTUS.    Psha! 


Augustus  Does  His  Bit  253 

THE  CLERK.    Well,  wc  havc  to  get  about  somehow. 
AUGUSTUS.    This  is  perfectly  monstrous.    Not  in  the 
least  what  I  intended. 

THE  CLERK.     Hell 

AUGUSTUS.    Sir! 

THE  CLERK  [^explaining]'  Hell,  they  says,  is  paved 
with  good  intentions. 

AUGUSTUS  [springing  to  his  feet].  Do  you  mean  to 
insinuate  that  hell  is  paved  with  my  good  intentions  — 
with  the  good  intentions  of  His  Majesty's  Government? 

THE  CLERK.  I  dou't  mean  to  insinuate  anything  until 
the  Defence  of  the  Realm  Act  is  repealed.    It  ain't  safe. 

AUGUSTUS.  They  told  me  that  this  town  had  set  an 
example  to  all  England  in  the  matter  of  economy.  I 
came  down  here  to  promise  the  Mayor  a  knighthood 
for  his  exertions. 

THE  CLERK.    The  Mayor!    Where  do  I  come  in? 

AUGUSTUS.  You  don't  come  in.  You  go  out.  This 
is  a  fool  of  a  place.  I'm  greatly  disappointed.  Deeply 
disappointed.  [Flinging  himself  back  into  his  chair.] 
Disgusted. 

THE  CLERK.  What  morc  can  we  do?  We've  shut  up 
everything.  The  pictiu*e  gallery  is  shut.  The  museum 
is  shut.  The  theatres  and  picture  shows  is  shut:  I 
haven't  seen  a  movy  picture  for  six  months. 

AUGUSTUS.  Man,  man:  do  you  want  to  see  picture 
shows  when  the  Hun  is  at  the  gate? 

THE  CLERK  [moumfully].  I  don't  now,  though^  it 
drove  me  melancholy  mad  at  first.  I  was  on  the  poiat 
of  taking  a  pennorth  of  rat  poison  — 

AUGUSTUS.    Why  didn't  you? 

THE  CLERK.  Bccausc  a  friend  advised  me  to  take  to 
drink  instead.  That  saved  my  life,  though  it  makes 
me  very  poor  company  in  the  mornings,  as  [hiccuping] 
perhaps  you've  noticed. 

AUGUSTUS.     Well,   upon   my   soul!     You   are   not 


254  Augustus  Does  His  Bit 

ashamed  to  stand  there  and  confess  yourself  a  disgust- 
ing drunkard. 

THE  CLERK.  Well,  what  of  it?  We're  at  war  now; 
and  everything's  changed.  Besides,  I  should  lose  my 
job  here  if  I  stood  drinking  at  the  bar.  I*m  a  respect- 
able man  and  must  buy  my  drink  and  take  it  home 
with  me.  And  they  won't  serve  me  with  less  than  a 
quart.  If  you'd  told  me  before  the  war  that  I  could 
get  through  a  quart  of  whisky  in  a  day,  I  shouldn't 
have  believed  you.  That's  the  good  of  war:  it  brings 
out  powers  in  a  man  that  he  never  suspected  himself 
capable  of.  You  said  so  yoiu-self  in  your  speech  last 
night. 

AUGUSTUS.  I  did  not  know  that  I  was  talking  to  an 
imbecile.  You  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself. 
There  must  be  an  end  of  this  drunken  slacking.  I'm 
going  to  establish  a  new  order  of  things  here.  I  shall 
come  down  every  morning  before  breakfast  until 
things  are  properly  in  train.  Have  a  cup  of  coffee 
and  two  rolls  for  me  here  every  morning  at  half -past 
ten. 

THE  CLERK.  You  Can't  havc  no  rolls.  The  only 
baker  that  baked  rolls  was  a  Hun;  and  he's  been  in- 
terned. 

AUGUSTUS.  Quite  right,  too.  And  was  there  no 
Englishman  to  take  his  place  .^^ 

THE  CLERK.  There  was.  But  he  was  caught  spy- 
ing;  and  they  took  him  up  to  London  and  shot  him. 

AUGUSTUS.    Shot  an  Enghshman! 

THE  CLERK.  Well,  it  stauds  to  reason  if  the  Ger- 
mans wanted  to  spy  they  wouldn't  employ  a  German 
that  everybody  would  suspect,  don't  it? 

AUGUSTUS  [rising  again].  Do  you  mean  to  say,  you 
scoundrel,  that  an  Enghshman  is  capable  of  selling  his 
country  to  the  enemy  for  gold? 

THE  CLERK.    Not  as  a  general  thing  I  wouldn't  say 


Augustus  Does  His  Bit  255 

it;  but  there's  men  here  would  sell  their  own  mothers 
for  two  coppers  if  they  got  the  chance. 

AUGUSTUS.  Beamish,  it's  an  ill  bird  that  fouls  its 
own  nest. 

THE  CLERK.  It  wasu't  me  that  let  Little  Pifflington 
get  foul.  /  don't  belong  to  the  governing  classes.  I 
only  tell  you  why  you  can't  have  no  rolls. 

AUGUSTUS  [intensely  irritated].  Can  you  tell  me 
where  I  can  find  an  intelligent  being  to  take  my  orders? 

THE  CLERK.  One  of  the  street  sweepers  used  to  teach 
in  the  school  until  it  was  shut  up  for  the  sake  of  econ- 
omy.   WiU  he  do? 

AUGUSTUS.  What!  You  mean  to  tell  me  that  when 
the  lives  of  the  gallant  fellows  in  our  trenches,  and  the 
fate  of  the  British  Empire,  depend  on  our  keeping  up 
the  supply  of  shells,  you  are  wasting  money  on  sweep- 
ing the  streets? 

THE  CLERK.  We  havc  to.  We  dropped  it  for  a 
while;  but  the  infant  death  rate  went  up  something 
frightful. 

AUGUSTUS.  What  matters  the  death  rate  of  Little 
Pifflington  in  a  moment  Hke  this?  Think  of  our  gal- 
lant soldiers,  not  of  your  squalling  infants. 

THE  CLERK.  If  you  Want  soldiers  you  must  have 
children.  You  can't  buy  em  in  boxes,  like  toy 
soldiers. 

AUGUSTUS.  Beamish,  the  long  and  the  short  of  it 
is,  you  are  no  patriot.  Go  downstairs  to  your  office; 
and  have  that  gas  stove  taken  away  and  replaced  by 
an  ordinary  grate.  The  Board  of  Trade  has  urged  on 
me  the  necessity  for  economizing  gas. 

THE  CLERK.  Our  orders  from  the  Minister  of  Muni- 
tions is  to  use  gas  instead  of  coal,  because  it  saves 
material.    Which  is  it  to  be? 

AVGJJSTVS  [bawling  furiously  at  hint].  Both!  Don't 
criticize  your  orders :  obey  them.    Your's  not  to  reason 


256  Augustus  Does  His  Bit 

why;  yours  but  to  do  and  die.  That's  war.  [^Cooling 
down,2    Have  you  anything  else  to  say? 

THE  CLERK.    Yes:  I  want  a  rise. 

AUGUSTUS  [reeling  against  the  table  in  his  horror}.  A 
rise!  Horatio  Floyd  Beamish,  do  you  know  that  we 
are  at  war? 

THE  CLERK  \_feehly  ironical].  I  have  noticed  some- 
thing about  it  in  the  papers.  Heard  you  mention  it 
once  or  twice,  now  I  come  to  think  of  it. 

AUGUSTUS.  Our  gallant  fellows  are  dying  in  the 
trenches;   and  you  want  a  rise! 

THE  CLERK.  What  are  they  dying  for?  To  keep  me 
alive,  ain't  it?  Well,  what's  the  good  of  that  if  I'm 
dead  of  hunger  by  the  time  they  come  back? 

AUGUSTUS.  Everybody  else  is  making  sacrifices 
without  a  thought  of  self;  and  you  — 

THE  CLERK.  Not  haK,  they  ain't.  Where's  the 
baker's  sacrifice?  Where's  the  coal  merchant's? 
Where's  the  butcher's?  Charging  me  double:  that's 
how  they  sacrifice  themselves.  Well,  I  want  to  sacri- 
fice myself  that  way  too.  Just  double  next  Saturday: 
double  and  not  a  penny  less;  or  no  secretary  for  you 
[he  stiffens  himself  shakily,  and  makes  resolutely  for  the 
door}. 

AUGUSTUS  [looking  after  him  contemptuously}.  Go, 
miserable  pro-German. 

THE  CLERK  [rushiug  hack  and  facing  him}.  Who  are 
you  calling  a  pro-German? 

AUGUSTUS.  Another  word,  and  I  charge  you  under 
the  Act  with  discouraging  me.    Go. 

The  clerk  blenches  and  goes  out,  cowed. 

The  telephone  rings. 

AUGUSTUS  [taking  up  the  telephone  receiver}.  Hallo 
.  .  .  Yes:  who  are  you?  .  .  .  oh,  Blueloo,  is  it?  .  .  . 
Yes:  there's  nobody  in  the  room:  fire  away  .  .  . 
What?  ...     A  spy!  ...     A  woman!  .  .  .     Yes;    I 


Augustus  Does  His  Bit  257 

brought  it  down  with  me.  Do  you  suppose  I'm  such 
a  fool  as  to  let  it  out  of  my  hands?  Why,  it  gives  a 
list  of  all  our  anti-aircraft  emplacements  from  Rams- 
gate  to  Skegness.  The  Germans  would  give  a  million 
for  it  —  what?  .  .  .  But  how  could  she  possibly 
know  about  it?  I  haven't  mentioned  it  to  a  soul,  ex- 
cept, of  course,  dear  Lucy.  .  .  .  Oh,  Toto  and  Lady 
Popham  and  that  lot:  they  don't  count:  they're  all 
right.  I  mean  that  I  haven't  mentioned  it  to  any  Ger- 
mans. .  .  .  Pooh!  Don't  you  be  nervous,  old  chap. 
I  know  you  think  me  a  fool;  but  I'm  not  such  a  fool 
as  all  that.  If  she  tries  to  get  it  out  of  me  I'll  have 
her  in  the  Tower  before  you  ring  up  again.  \^The  clerk 
returns'].  Sh-sh!  Somebody's  just  come  in:  ring  off. 
Goodbye.    [^He  hangs  up  the  receiver']. 

THE  CLERK.  Are  you  engaged?  [His  manner  is 
strangely  softened]. 

AUGUSTUS.  What  business  is  that  of  yours?  How- 
ever, if  you  will  take  the  trouble  to  read  the  society 
papers  for  this  week,  you  will  see  that  I  am  engaged  to 
the  Honorable  Lucy  Popham,  youngest  daughter  of  — 

THE  CLERK.  That  ain't  what  I  mean.  Can  you  see 
a  female? 

AUGUSTUS.  Of  course  I  can  see  a  female  as  easily  as 
a  male.    Do  you  suppose  I'm  blind? 

THE  CLERK.  You  dou't  sccm  to  follow  me,  some- 
how. There's  a  female  downstairs:  what  you  might 
call  a  lady.  She  wants  to  know  can  you  see  her  if  I 
let  her  up. 

AUGUSTUS.  Oh,  you  mean  am  I  disengsiged.  Tell  the 
lady  I  have  just  received  news  of  the  greatest  impor- 
tance which  will  occupy  my  entire  attention  for  the  rest 
of  the  day,  and  that  she  must  write  for  an  appointment. 

THE  CLERK.  I'll  ask  her  to  explain  her  business  to 
me.  I  ain't  above  talking  to  a  handsome  young  female 
when  I  get  the  chance  [going]. 


258  Augustus  Does  His  Bit 

AUGUSTUS.  Stop.  Does  she  seem  to  be  a  person  of 
consequence? 

THE  CLERK.    A  regular  marchioness,  if  you  ask  me. 

AUGUSTUS.    Hm!    Beautiful,  did  you  say? 

THE  CLERK.  A  human  chrysanthemum,  sir,  believe 
me. 

AUGUSTUS.  It  will  be  extremely  inconvenient  for  me 
to  see  her;  but  the  country  is  in  danger;  and  we  must 
not  consider  our  own  comfort.  Think  how  our  gallant 
fellows  are  suffering  in  the  trenches!  Show  her  up. 
[The  clerk  makes  for  the  dooTy  whistling  the  latest  popular 
love  ballad].  Stop  whistling  instantly,  sir.  This  is  not 
a  casino. 

THE  CLERK.  Ain't  it?  You  just  wait  till  you  see 
her.    [He  goes  ovi.'] 

Augustus  produces  a  mirror,  a  corrib,  and  a  pot  of 
moustache  pomade  from  the  drawer  of  the  writing-table^ 
and  sits  down  before  the  mirror  to  put  some  tovjches  to  his 
toilet. 

The  clerk  returns,  devotedly  ushering  a  very  attractive 
lady,  brilliantly  dressed.  She  has  a  dainty  wallet  hanging 
from  her  wrist.  Augustus  hastily  covers  up  his  toilet  ap- 
paratus with  The  Morning  Post,  and  rises  in  an  attitude 
of  pompous  condescension. 

THE  CLERK  [to  Augustus],  Here  she  is.  [To  the 
lady. 2  May  I  offer  you  a  chair,  lady?  [He  places  a 
chair  at  the  umting-table  opposite  Augustus,  and  steals 
out  on  tiptoe.] 

AUGUSTUS.    Be  seated,  madam. 

THE  LADY  [sitting  down].  Are  you  Lord  Augustus 
Highcastle? 

AUGUSTUS  [sitting  also].    Madam,  I  am. 

THE  LADY  [loith  awc].    The  great  Lord  Augustus? 

AUGUSTUS.  I  should  not  dream  of  describing  myself 
so,  madam;  but  no  doubt  I  have  impressed  my  coun- 
trymen—  and  [bowing  gallantly]  may  I  say  my  coun- 


Augustus  Does  His  Bit  259 

trywomen  —  as  having  some  exceptional  claims  to 
their  consideration. 

THE  LADY  [^emotionally].  What  a  beautiful  voice  you 
have! 

AUGUSTUS.  What  you  hear,  madam,  is  the  voice  of 
my  country,  which  now  takes  a  sweet  and  noble  tone 
even  in  the  harsh  mouth  of  high  oflScialism. 

THE  lADY.  Please  go  on.  You  express  yourself  so 
wonderfully! 

AUGUSTUS.  It  would  be  strange  indeed  if,  after  sit- 
ting on  thirty-seven  Royal  Commissions,  mostly  as 
chairman,  I  had  not  mastered  the  art  of  pubUc  expres- 
sion. Even  the  Radical  papers  have  paid  me  the  high 
compliment  of  declaring  that  I  am  never  more  impres- 
sive than  when  I  have  nothing  to  say. 

THE  LADY.  I  ucvcr  read  the  Radical  papers.  AU  I 
can  tell  you  is  that  what  we  women  admire  in  you  is 
not  the  poUtician,  but  the  man  of  action,  the  heroic 
warrior,  the  beau  sahreur. 

AUGUSTUS  \jloomily].  Madam,  I  beg!  Please!  My 
mihtary  exploits  are  not  a  pleasant  subject,  unhappily. 

THE  LADY.  Oh,  I  know,  I  know.  How  shamefully 
you  have  been  treated!  What  ingratitude!  But  the 
country  is  with  you.  The  women  are  with  you.  Oh, 
do  you  think  all  our  hearts  did  not  throb  and  all  our 
nerves  thrill  when  we  heard  how,  when  you  were 
ordered  to  occupy  that  terrible  quarry  in  Hulluch, 
and  you  swept  into  it  at  the  head  of  your  men  like  a 
sea-god  riding  on  a  tidal  wave,  you  suddenly  sprang 
over  the  top  shouting  "To  Berlin!  Forward!";  dashed 
at  the  German  army  single-handed;  and  were  cut  off 
and  made  prisoner  by  the  Huns. 

AUGUSTUS.  Yes,  madam;  and  what  was  my  re- 
ward.f*  They  said  I  had  disobeyed  orders,  and  sent  me 
home.  Have  they  forgotten  Nelson  in  the  Baltic? 
Has  any  British  battle  ever  been  won  except  by  a  bold 


£60  Augustus  Does  His  Bit 

individual  initiative?  I  say  nothing  of  professional 
jealousy:  it  exists  in  the  army  as  elsewhere;  but  it  is 
a  bitter  thought  to  me  that  the  recognition  denied  me 
by  my  own  country  —  or  rather  by  the  Radical  cabal 
in  the  Cabinet  which  pursues  my  family  with  rancor- 
ous class  hatred  —  that  this  recognition,  I  say,  came 
to  me  at  the  hands  of  an  enemy  —  of  a  rank  Prussian. 

THE  LADY.    You  dou't  Say  so! 

AUGUSTUS.  How  else  should  I  be  here  instead  of 
starving  to  death  in  Ruhleben?  Yes,  madam:  the 
Colonel  of  the  Pomeranian  regiment  which  captured 
me,  after  learning  what  I  had  done,  and  conversing 
for  an  hour  with  me  on  European  politics  and  military 
strategy,  declared  that  nothing  would  induce  him  to 
deprive  my  country  of  my  services,  and  set  me  free. 
I  offered,  of  course,  to  procure  the  release  in  exchange 
of  a  German  officer  of  equal  quality;  but  he  would 
not  hear  of  it.  He  was  kind  enough  to  say  he  could 
not  believe  that  a  German  officer  answering  to  that 
description  existed.  [JVith  emotionr\  I  had  my  first 
taste  of  the  ingratitude  of  my  own  country  as  I  made 
my  way  back  to  our  lines.  A  shot  from  our  front 
trench  struck  me  in  the  head.  I  still  carry  the  flattened 
projectile  as  a  trophy  ]Jie  throws  it  on  the  table;  the  noise 
it  makes  testifies  to  its  weightji-  Had  it  penetrated  to 
the  brain  I  might  never  have  sat  on  another  Royal 
Commission.  Fortunately  we  have  strong  heads,  we 
Highcastles.  Nothing  has  ever  penetrated  to  our 
brains. 

THE  LADY.  How  thrilling!  How  simple!  And  how 
tragic!  But  you  will  forgive  England?  Remember: 
England!    Forgive  her. 

AUGUSTUS  [with  gloomy  magnanimity}.  It  will  make 
no  difference  whatever  to  my  services  to  my  country. 
Though  she  slay  me,  yet  will  I,  if  not  exactly  trust  in 
her,  at  least  take  my  part  in  her  government.    I  am 


Augustus  Ddes  His  Bit  261 

ever  at  my  country's  call.  Whether  it  be  the  embassy 
in  a  leading  European  capital,  a  governor-generalship 
in  the  tropics,  or  my  humble  mission  here  to  make 
Little  Pifflington  do  its  bit,  I  am  always  ready  for  the 
sacrifice.  Whilst  England  remains  England,  wherever 
there  is  a  public  job  to  be  done  you  will  find  a  High- 
castle  sticking  to  it.  And  now,  madam,  enough  of  my 
tragic  personal  history.  You  have  called  on  business. 
What  can  I  do  for  you? 

THE  LADY.  You  havc  relatives  at  the  Foreign  Office, 
have  you  not? 

AUGUSTUS  [haughtily].  Madam,  the  Foreign  Office 
is  staffed  by  my  relatives  exclusively. 

THE  LADY.  Has  the  Foreign  Office  warned  you  that 
you  are  being  pursued  by  a  female  spy  who  is  deter- 
mined to  obtain  possession  of  a  certain  list  of  gun 
emplacements  — 

AUGUSTUS  [interrupting  her  somewhat  loftily].  All 
that  is  perfectly  well  known  to  this  department, 
madam. 

THE  LADY  [surprised  and  rather  indignant].  Is  it? 
Who  told  you?  Was  it  one  of  your  German  brothers- 
in-law? 

AUGUSTUS  [injured,  remonstrating].  I  have  only 
three  German  brothers-in-law,  madam.  Really,  from 
your  tone,  one  would  suppose  that  I  had  several.  Par- 
don my  sensitiveness  on  that  subject;  but  reports  are 
continually  being  circulated  that  I  have  been  shot  as 
a  traitor  in  the  courtyard  of  the  Ritz  Hotel  simply  be- 
cause I  have  German  brothers-in-law.  [With  feeling.] 
If  you  had  a  German  brother-in-law,  madam,  you 
would  know  that  nothing  else  in  the  world  produces  so 
strong  an  anti-German  feeling.  Life  affords  no  keener 
pleasure  than  finding  a  brother-in-law's  name  in  the 
German  casualty  list. 

THE   LADY.     Nobody   knows   that   better   than   I. 


262  Augustus  Does  His  Bit 

Wait  until  you  hear  what  I  have  come  to  tell  you :  you 
will  understand  me  as  no  one  else  could.  Listen.  This 
spy,  this  woman  — 

AUGUSTUS  [^all  attention].    Yes? 

THE  LADY.    She  is  a  German.    A  Hun. 

AUGUSTUS.    Yes,  yes.    She  would  be.    Continue. 

THE  LADY.    She  is  my  sister-in-law. 

AUGUSTUS  {defer entially],  I  see  you  are  well  con- 
nected, madam.    Proceed. 

THE  LADY.  Need  I  add  that  she  is  my  bitterest 
enemy.? 

AUGUSTUS.  May  I  —  [lie  proffers  his  hand.  They 
shake,  fervently.  From  this  moment  onward  Augustus  be- 
comes more  and  more  confidential,  gallant,  and  charming]. 

THE  LADY.  Quitc  SO.  Well,  she  is  an  intimate  friend 
of  your  bother  at  the  War  OflSce,  Hungerford  High- 
castle,  Blueloo  as  you  call  him,  I  don't  know  why. 

AUGUSTUS  [explaining].  He  was  originally  called 
The  Singing  Oyster,  because  he  sang  drawing-room 
ballads  with  such  an  extraordinary  absence  of  expres- 
sion. He  was  then  called  the  Blue  Point  for  a  season 
or  two.    Finally  he  became  Blueloo. 

THE  LADY.  Oh,  indeed:  I  didn't  know.  Well,  Blue- 
loo is  simply  infatuated  with  my  sister-in-law;  and  he 
has  rashly  let  out  to  her  that  this  list  is  in  your  p>os- 
session.  He  forgot  himself  because  he  was  in  a  tower- 
ing rage  at  its  being  entrusted  to  you:  his  language 
was  terrible.  He  ordered  all  the  guns  to  be  shifted  at 
once. 

AUGUSTUS.    What  on  earth  did  he  do  that  for? 

THE  LADY.  I  Can't  imagine.  But  this  I  know.  She 
made  a  bet  with  him  that  she  would  come  down  here 
and  obtain  possession  of  that  list  and  get  clean  away 
into  the  street  with  it.  He  took  the  bet  on  condition 
that  she  brought  it  straight  back  to  him  at  the  War 
Office. 


Augustus  Does  His  Bit  263 

AUGUSTUS.  Good  heavens!  And  you  mean  to  tell 
me  that  Blueloo  was  such  a  dolt  as  to  believe  that  she 
could  succeed?    Does  he  take  me  for  a  fool? 

THE  LADY.  Oh,  impossible!  He  is  jealous  of  your 
intellect.  The  bet  is  an  insult  to  you:  don't  you  feel 
that?    After  what  you  have  done  for  our  country  — 

AUGUSTUS.  Oh,  never  mind  that.  It  is  the  idiocy 
of  the  thing  I  look  at.  He'll  lose  his  bet;  and  serve 
him  right! 

THE  LADY.  You  feel  sure  you  will  be  able  to  resist 
the  siren?    I  warn  you,  she  is  very  fascinating. 

AUGUSTUS.  You  need  have  no  fear,  madam.  I  hope 
she  will  come  and  try  it  on.  Fascination  is  a  game  that 
two  can  play  at.  For  centuries  the  younger  sons  of  the 
Highcastles  have  had  nothing  to  do  but  fascinate  at- 
tractive females  when  they  were  not  sitting  on  Royal 
Commissions  or  on  duty  at  Knightsbridge  barracks. 
By  Gad,  madam,  if  the  siren  comes  here  she  will  meet 
her  match. 

THE  LADY.  I  fccl  that.  But  if  she  fails  to  seduce 
you  — 

AUGUSTUS  [blushing].    Madam! 

THE  LADY  [continuing']  —  from  your  allegiance  — 

AUGUSTUS.    Oh,  that! 

THE  LADY.  —  shc  will  rcsort  to  fraud,  to  force,  to 
anything.  She  will  burgle  your  office:  she  will  have 
you  attacked  and  garotted  at  night  in  the  street. 

AUGUSTUS.    Pooh!    I'm  not  afraid. 

THE  LADY.  Oh,  your  courage  will  only  tempt  you 
into  danger.  She  may  get  the  list  after  all.  It  is  true 
that  the  guns  are  moved.    But  she  would  win  her  bet. 

AUGUSTUS  [cautiously].  You  did  not  say  that  the 
guns  were  moved.  You  said  that  Blueloo  had  ordered 
them  to  be  moved. 

THE  LADY.    Well,  that  is  the  same  thing,  isn't  it? 

AUGUSTUS.     Not  quite  —  at  the  War  Office.     No 


264  Augustus  Does  His  Bit 

doubt  those  guns  will  be  moved:  possibly  even  before 
the  end  of  the  war. 

THE  LADY.  Then  you  think  they  are  there  still! 
But  if  the  German  War  Office  gets  the  list  —  and  she 
will  copy  it  before  she  gives  it  back  to  Blueloo,  you 
may  depend  on  it  —  all  is  lost. 

AUGUSTUS  [lazily].  Well,  I  should  not  go  as  far  as 
that.  [Lowering  his  voice.']  Will  you  swear  to  me  not 
to  repeat  what  I  am  going  to  say  to  you;  for  if  the 
British  public  knew  that  I  had  said  it,  I  should  be  at 
once  hounded  down  as  a  pro-German. 

THE  LADY.    I  wiU  be  silcut  as  the  grave.    I  swear  it. 

AUGUSTUS  [again  taking  it  easily].  Well,  our  people 
have  for  some  reason  made  up  their  minds  that  the 
German  War  Office  is  everything  that  our  War  Office 
is  not  —  that  it  carries  promptitude,  efficiency,  and 
organization  to  a  pitch  of  completeness  and  perfection 
that  must  be,  in  my  opinion,  destructive  to  the  happi- 
ness of  the  staff.  My  own  view  —  which  you  are 
pledged,  remember,  not  to  betray  —  is  that  the  Ger- 
man War  Office  is  no  better  than  any  other  War  Office. 
I  found  that  opinion  on  my  observation  of  the  charac- 
ters of  my  brothers-in-law:  one  of  whom,  by  the  way, 
is  on  the  German  general  staff .  I  am  not  at  all  sure 
that  this  list  of  gun  emplacements  would  receive  the 
smallest  attention.  You  see,  there  are  always  so  many 
more  important  things  to  be  attended  to.  Family 
matters,  and  so  on,  you  understand. 

THE  LADY.  Still,  if  a  question  were  asked  in  the 
House  of  Commons  — 

AUGUSTUS.  The  great  advantage  of  being  at  war, 
madam,  is  that  nobody  takes  the  slightest  notice  of 
the  House  of  Commons.  No  doubt  it  is  sometimes 
necessary  for  a  Minister  to  soothe  the  more  seditious 
members  of  that  assembly  by  giving  a  pledge  or  two; 
but  the  War  Office  takes  no  notice  of  such  things. 


Augustus  Does  His  Bit  ^65 

THE  LADY  [_staring  at  him].  Then  you  think  this 
list  of  gun  emplacements  doesn't  matter!! 

AUGUSTUS.  By  no  means,  madam.  It  matters 
very  much  indeed.  If  this  spy  were  to  obtain  posses- 
sion of  the  list,  Blueloo  would  tell  the  story  at  every 
dinner- table  in  London;  and  — 

THE  LADY.  And  you  might  lose  your  post.  Of 
course. 

AUGUSTUS  [amazed  and  indignant].  I  lose  my  post! 
What  are  you  dreaming  about,  madam .^  How  could 
I  possibly  be  spared.^  There  are  hardly  Highcastles 
enough  at  present  to  fill  half  the  posts  created  by  this 
war.  No:  Blueloo  would  not  go  that  far.  He  is  at 
least  a  gentleman.  But  I  should  be  chaffed;  and, 
frankly,  I  don't  like  being  chaffed. 

THE  LADY.  Of  coursc  uot.  Who  does?  It  would 
never  do.    Oh  never,  never. 

AUGUSTUS.  I'm  glad  you  see  it  in  that  light.  And 
now,  as  a  measure  of  security,  I  shall  put  that  list 
in  my  pocket.  [He  begins  searching  vainly  from  drawer 
to  drawer  in  the  writing -table.]  Where  on  earth  — ? 
What  the  dickens  did  I — ?  That's  very  odd:  I  — 
Where  the  deuce  — ?  I  thought  I  had  put  it  in  the  — 
Oh,  here  it  is !    No :  this  is  Lucy's  last  letter. 

THE  LADY  [degiacally].  Lucy's  Last  Letter!  What 
a  title  for  a  picture  play! 

AUGUSTUS  [delighted].  Yes:  it  is,  isn't  it?  Lucy 
appeals  to  the  imagination  like  no  other  woman.  By 
the  way  [handing  over  the  letter],  I  wonder  could  you 
read  it  for  me?  Lucy  is  a  darling  girl;  but  I  really 
can't  read  her  writing.  In  London  I  get  the  oflBce 
typist  to  decipher  it  and  make  me  a  typed  copy;  but 
here  there  is  nobody. 

THE  LADY  [puzzUng  over  it].  It  is  really  almost 
illegible.  I  think  the  beginning  is  meant  for  "Dearest 
Gus." 


266  Augustus  Does  His  Bit 

AUGUSTUS  ^eagerly'}.  Yes:  that  is  what  she  usually 
calls  me.    Please  go  on. 

THE  LADY  [trying  to  decipher  W}.  "What  a"  — 
"what  a'*  —  oh  yes:  "what  a  forgetful  old"  — 
something  —  "you  are!"    I  can't  make  out  the  word. 

AUGUSTUS  [greatly  interested'].  Is  it  blighter?  That 
is  a  favorite  expression  of  hers. 

THE  LADY.  I  think  so.  At  all  events  it  begins  with 
a  B.  [Reading.]  "What  a  forgetful  old'*  —  [she  is 
interrupted  by  a  knock  at  the  door.] 

AUGUSTUS  [impatiently].  Come  in.  [The  clerk 
enterSy  clean  shaven  and  in  khakiy  with  an  official  paper 
and  an  envelope  in  his  hand.]  What  is  this  ridiculous 
mummery  sir? 

THE  CLERK  [coming  to  the  table  and  exhibiting  his 
uniform  to  both.]  They've  passed  me.  The  recruiting 
officer  come  for  me.    I've  had  my  two  and  seven. 

AUGUSTUS  [rising  wrathfully].  I  shall  not  permit 
it.  What  do  they  mean  by  taking  my  office  staff? 
Good  God!  they  will  be  taking  our  hunt  servants 
next.  [Confronting  the  clerk.]  What  did  the  man  mean? 
What  did  he  say? 

THE  CLERK.  He  Said  that  now  you  was  on  the  job 
we'd  want  another  miUion  men,  and  he  was  going  to 
take  the  old-age  pensioners  or  anyone  he  could  get. 

AUGUSTUS.  And  did  you  dare  to  knock  at  my  door 
and  interrupt  my  business  with  this  lady  to  repeat 
this  man's  ineptitudes? 

THE  CLERK.  No.  I  comc  bccausc  the  waiter  from 
the  hotel  brought  this  paper.  You  left  it  on  the  coffee- 
room  breakfast-table  this  morning. 

THE  LADY  [intercepting  it].  It  is  the  list.  Good 
heavens ! 

THE  CLERK  [proffering  the  envelope].  He  says  he 
thinks  this  is  the  envelope  belonging  to  it. 

THE  LADY  [snatching  the  envelope  also].     Yes!    Ad- 


Augustus  Does  His  Bit  267 

dressed  to  you,  Lord  Augustus!  [^Augustus  comes  back 
to  the  table  to  look  at  it. 2  Oh,  how  imprudent!  Every- 
body would  guess  its  importance  with  your  name  on  it. 
Fortunately  I  have  some  letters  of  my  own  here  [^open- 
ing her  wallet^.  Why  not  hide  it  in  one  of  my  envelopes? 
then  no  one  will  dream  that  the  enclosure  is  of  any 
political  value.  [^Taking  out  a  letter,  she  crosses  the 
room  towards  the  window,  whispering  to  Augustus  as 
she  passes  Aim.]    Get  rid  of  that  man. 

AUGUSTUS  [^haughtily  approaching  the  clerk,  who 
humorously  makes  a  paralytic  attempt  to  stand  at  atten- 
tion'].   Have  you  any  further  business  here,  pray? 

THE  CLERK.  Am  I  to  givc  the  waiter  anything;  or 
will  you  do  it  yourself? 

AUGUSTUS.    Which  waiter  is  it?    The  English  one? 

THE  CLERK.  No:  the  one  that  calls  hisself  a  Swiss. 
Shouldn't  wonder  if  he*d  made  a  copy  of  that  paper. 

AUGUSTUS.  Keep  your  impertinent  surmises  to 
yourself,  sir.  Remember  that  you  are  in  the  army 
now;  and  let  me  have  no  more  of  your  civilian  in- 
subordination.   Attention!    Left  turn!    Quick  march! 

THE  CLERK  \jtolidly'].    I  dunno  what  you  mean. 

AUGUSTUS.  Go  to  the  guard-room  and  report  your- 
self for  disobeying  orders.  Now  do  you  know  what 
I  mean? 

THE  CLERK.  Now  look  hcrc.  I  ain't  going  to  argue 
with  you  — 

AUGUSTUS.    Nor  I  with  you.    Out  with  you. 

He  seizes  the  clerk:  and  rushes  him  through  the  door. 
The  moment  the  lady  is  left  alone,  she  snatches  a  sheet  of 
official  paper  from  the  stationery  rack:  folds  it  so  that 
it  resembles  the  list;  compares  the  two  to  see  that  they 
look  exactly  alike:  whips  the  list  into  her  wallet:  and 
substitutes  the  facsimile  for  it.  Then  she  listens  for 
the  return  of  Augustus.  A  crash  is  heard,  as  of  the  clerk 
falling  downstairs. 


268  Augustus  Does  His  Bit 

Augustus  returns  and  is  about  to  close  the  door  when 
the  voice  of  the  clerk  is  heard  from  below. 

THE  CLEBK.  I'll  havc  the  law  of  you  for  this,  I 
will. 

AUGUSTUS  [^shouting  down  to  hirri}.  There's  no 
more  law  for  you,  you  scoundrel.  You're  a  soldier 
now.  \JIe  shuts  the  door  and  comes  to  the  lady.'}  Thank 
heaven,  the  war  has  given  us  the  upper  hand  of  these 
fellows  at  last.  Excuse  my  violence;  but  discipline 
is  absolutely  necessary  in  dealing  with  the  lower 
middle  classes. 

THE  LADY.  Scrvc  the  iusolcut  crcaturc  right!  Look! 
I  have  found  you  a  beautiful  envelope  for  the  list, 
an  unmistakable  lady's  envelope.  \^She  puts  the  sham 
list  into  her  envelope  and  hands  it  to  him.} 

AUGUSTUS.  Excellent.  Really  very  clever  of  you. 
Z^lyly-}  Come:  would  you  like  to  have  a  peep  at 
the  list  [beginning  to  take  the  blank  paper  from  the 
envelope}? 

THE  LADY  [ow  the  brink  of  detection}.  No  no.  Oh, 
please,  no. 

AUGUSTUS.  Why?  It  won't  bite  you  [dravnng  it 
out  further}. 

THiEijjADY  [snatching  at  his  hand}.  Stop.  Remember: 
if  there  should  be  an  inquiry,  you  must  be  able  to 
swear  that  you  never  shewed  that  list  to  a  mortal 
soul. 

AUGUSTUS.  Oh,  that  is  a  mere  form.  If  you  are 
really  curious  — 

THE  LADY.  I  am  uot.  I  couldu't  bear  to  look  at 
it.  One  of  my  dearest  friends  was  blown  to  pieces 
by  an  aircraft  gun;  and  since  then  I  have  never  been 
able  to  think  of  one  without  horror. 

AUGUSTUS.  You  mean  it  was  a  real  gun,  and  actually 
went  off.  How  sad !  how  sad !  [He  pushes  the  sham  list 
back  into  the  envelope,  and  pockets  it.} 


Augustus  Does  His  Bit  269 

THE  LADY.  Ah!  [^Great  sigh  of  relief.'}  And  now. 
Lord  Augustus,  I  have  taken  up  too  much  of  your 
valuable  time.    Goodbye. 

AUGUSTUS.    What!    Must  you  go? 

THE  LADY.    You  are  so  busy. 

AUGUSTUS.  Yes;  but  not  before  lunch,  you  know. 
I  never  can  do  much  before  lunch.  And  I'm  no  good 
at  all  in  the  afternoon.  From  five  to  six  is  my  real 
working  time.    Must  you  really  go? 

THE  LADY.  I  must,  really.  I  have  done  my  busi- 
ness very  satisfactorily.  Thank  you  ever  so  much 
[^she  proffers  her  hand]. 

AUGUSTUS  [^shaking  it  affectionately  as  he  leads  her 
to  the  door,  but  first  pressing  the  bell  button  with  his 
left  hand}.  Goodbye.  Goodbye.  So  sorry  to  lose 
you.  Kind  of  you  to  come;  but  there  was  no  real 
danger.  You  see,  my  dear  little  lady,  all  this  talk 
about  war  saving,  and  secrecy,  and  keeping  the  blinds 
down  at  night,  and  so  forth,  is  all  very  well;  but  un- 
less it's  carried  out  with  inteUigence,  believe  me,  you 
may  waste  a  pound  to  save  a  penny;  you  may  let 
out  all  sorts  of  secrets  to  the  enemy;  you  may  guide 
the  Zeppelins  right  on  to  your  own  chimneys.  That's 
where  the  abihty  of  the  governing  class  comes  in. 
Shall  the  fellow  call  a  taxi  for  you? 

THE  LADY.  No,  thauks:  I  prefer  walking.  Good- 
bye.   Again,  many,  many  thanks. 

She  goes  out,  Augustus  returns  to  the  writing-table 
smiling y  and  takes  another  look  at  himself  in  the  mirror. 
The  clerk  returns,  with  his  head  bandaged,  carrying  a 
poker, 

THE  CLERK.  What  did  you  ring  for?  \_Augustus 
hastily  drops  the  mirror,}  Don't  you  come  nigh  me  or 
I'll  split  your  head  with  this  poker,  thick  as  it  is. 

AUGUSTUS.  It  does  not  seem  to  me  an  exceptionally 
thick  poker.    I  rang  for  you  to  show  the  lady  out. 


270  Augustus  Does  His  Bit 

THE  CLERK.  She*s  gone.  She  run  out  like  a  rabbit. 
I  ask  myself  why  was  she  in  such  a  hurry? 

THE  lady's  voice  [Jrom  the  street].  Lord  Augustus. 
Lord  Augustus. 

THE  CLERK.    She's  Calling  you. 

AUGUSTUS  [running  to  the  window  and  throuoing  it 
wp}.    What  is  it.?  Won't  you  come  up? 

THE  LADY.    Is  the  clcrk  there? 

AUGUSTUS.    Yes.    Do  you  want  him? 

THE  LADY.      YcS. 

AUGUSTUS.    The  lady  wants  you  at  the  window. 

THE  CLERK  {rushing  to  the  window  and  putting  dovm 
the  poker].  Yes,  ma'am?  Here  I  am,  ma'am.  What 
is  it,  ma'am? 

THE  LADY.  I  Want  you  to  witness  that  I  got  clean 
away  into  the  street.    I  am  coming  up  now. 

The  two  men  stare  at  one  another, 

THE  CLERK.  Wauts  me  to  witness  that  she  got 
clean  away  into  the  street! 

AUGUSTUS.    What  on  earth  does  she  mean? 

The  lady  returns, 

THE  LADY.    May  I  use  your  telephone? 

AUGUSTUS.  Certainly.  Certainly.  [Taking  the 
receiver  down.]    What  number  shall  I  get  you? 

THE  LADY.    The  War  Office,  please. 

AUGUSTUS.    The  War  Office!? 

THE  LADY.    If  you  wiU  be  so  good. 

AUGUSTUS.  But —  Oh,  very  well.  [Into  the  re- 
ceiver.] Hallo.  This  is  the  Town  Hall  Recruiting 
Office.    Give  me  Colonel  Bogey,  sharp. 

A  pause. 
r  THE  CLERK  [breaking  the  painful  silence].  I  don't  think 
I'm  awake.    This  is  a  dream  of  a  movy  picture,  this  is. 

AUGUSTUS  [his  ear  at  the  receiver].  Shut  up,  will 
you?  [Into  the  telephone.]  What?  ,  ,  ,  [To  the 
lady,]    Whom  do  you  want  to  get  on  to? 


Augustus  Does  His  Bit  271 

THE  LADY.     Blueloo. 

AUGUSTUS  [into  the  telephone}.  Put  me  through  to 
Lord  Hungerford  Highcastle.  .  .  .  I'm  his  brother, 
idiot.  .  .  .  That  you,  Blueloo?  Lady  here  at 
Little  Pifflington  wants  to  speak  to  you.  Hold  the 
line.  [To  the  lady.}  Now,  madam  [he  hands  her  the 
receiver]. 

THE  LADY  [sitting  down  in  Augustuses  chair  to  speak 
into  the  telephone].  Is  that  Blueloo?  .  .  .  Do  you 
recognize  my  voice?  .  .  .  I've  won  our  bet 

AUGUSTUS.    Your  bet! 

THE  LADY  [into  the  telephone].  Yes:  I  have  the 
list  in  my  wallet.  .  .  . 

AUGUSTUS.  Nothing  of  the  kind,  madam.  I  have 
it  here  in  my  pocket.  [He  takes  the  envelope  from  his 
pocket:  draws  out  the  paper:  and  unfolds  it.] 

THE  LADY  [continuing].  Yes:  I  got  clean  into  the 
street  with  it.  I  have  a  witness.  I  could  have  got  to 
London  with  it.    Augustus  won't  deny  it.  .  .  . 

AUGUSTUS  [contemplating  the  blank  paper].  There's 
nothing  written  on  this.    Where  is  the  list  of  guns? 

THE  LADY  [continuing].  Oh,  it  was  quite  easy.  I 
said  I  was  my  sister-in-law  and  that  I  was  a  Hun. 
He  lapped  it  up  like  a  kitten.  .  .  . 

AUGUSTUS.    You  don't  mean  to  say  that  — 

THE  LADY  [continuing].  I  got  hold  of  the  list  for  a 
moment  and  changed  it  for  a  piece  of  paper  out  of 
his  stationery  rack:  it  was  quite  easy  [she  laughs: 
and  it  is  clear  that  Blueloo  is  laughing  too], 

AUGUSTUS.     What! 

THE  CLERK  [laughing  slowly  and  laboriously^  with 
intense  enjoyment].  Ha  ha!  Ha  ha  ha!  Ha!  [Augus- 
tus rushes  at  him;  he  snatches  up  the  poker  and  stands 
on  guard.]    No  you  don't. 

THE  LADY  [still  at  the  telephone^  waving  her  disengaged 
hand  behind  her  impatienly  at  them  to  stop  making  a 


272  Augustus  Does  His  Bit 

noise].  Sh-sh-sh-sh-sh ! ! !  \^AugustuSy  with  a  shrug, 
goes  up  the  middle  of  the  room.  The  lady  resumes  her 
conversation  with  the  telephone. ~\  What?  .  .  .  Oh  yes: 
I'm  coming  up  by  the  12.35:  why  not  have  tea  with 
me  at  Rumpelmeister's?  .  .  .  Rum-pel-meister^s.  You 
know:  they  call  it  Robinson's  now.  .  .  .  Right.  Ta 
ta.  [_She  hangs  up  the  receiver,  and  is  passing  round  the 
table  on  her  way  towards  the  door  when  she  is  confronted 
by  Augustus."] 

AUGUSTUS.  Madam,  I  consider  your  conduct  most 
unpatriotic.  You  make  bets  and  abuse  the  confidence 
of  the  hardworked  officials  who  are  doing  their  bit 
for  their  country  whilst  our  gallant  fellows  are  perish- 
ing in  the  trenches  — 

THE  LADY.  Oh,  the  gallant  fellows  are  not  all  in 
the  trenches,  Augustus.  Some  of  them  have  come 
home  for  a  few  days,  hard-earned  leave;  and  I  am 
sure  you  won't  grudge  them  a  little  fun  at  your  expense. 

THE  CLERK.    Hear!  hear! 

AUGUSTUS  [^amiably].  Ah,  well!  For  my  coimtry's 
sake  —  I 


ANNAJANSKA, 
THE  BOLSHEVIK  EMPRESS 

XXXI 


ANNAJANSKA  IS  frankly  a  bravura  piece.  The  modern 
variety  theatre  demands  for  its  "tm-ns"  Httle  plays 
called  sketches,  to  last  twenty  minutes  or  so,  and  to 
enable  some  favorite  performer  to  make  a  brief  but 
dazzling  appearance  on  some  barely  passable  dramatic 
pretext.  Miss  Lillah  McCarthy  and  I,  as  author  and 
actress,  have  helped  to  make  one  another  famous  on 
many  serious  occasions,  from  Man  and  Superman  to 
Androcles;  and  Mr  Charles  Ricketts  has  not  dis- 
dained to  snatch  moments  from  his  painting  and 
sculpture  to  design  some  wonderful  dresses  for  us. 
We  three  unbent  as  Mrs  Siddons,  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds, 
and  Dr  Johnson  might  have  unbent,  to  devise  a  "turn" 
for  the  Coliseum  variety  theatre.  Not  that  we  would 
set  down  the  art  of  the  variety  theatre  as  something 
to  be  condescended  to,  or  our  own  art  as  elephantine. 
We  should  rather  crave  indulgence  as  three  novices 
fresh  from  the  awful  legitimacy  of  the  highbrow 
theatre. 

Well,  Miss  McCarthy  and  Mr  Ricketts  justified 
themselves  easily  in  the  glamor  of  the  footlights,  to 
the  strains  of  Tchaikovsky's  1812.  I  fear  I  did  not.  I 
have  received  only  one  compliment  on  my  share; 
and  that  was  from  a  friend  who  said,  "It  is  the  only 
one  of  your  works  that  is  not  too  long.'*  So  I  have 
made  it  a  page  or  two  longer,  according  to  my  own 
precept:     embrace    your    reproaches:     they    are 

OFTEN  glories  IN  DISGUISE. 


275 


Annajanska  was  first  performed  at  the  Coliseum 
Theatre  in  London  on  the  ^Ist  January,  1918,   unth      | 
Lillah  McCarthy  as  the   Grand  Duchess,  Henry  Miller      ^ 
as  Schneidekind,  and  Randle  Ayrton  as  General  Stramm- 
fest. 


179 


ANNAJANSKA, 
THE  BOLSHEVIK  EMPRESS 

The  GeneraVs  office  in  a  military  station  on  the  east 
front  in  Beotia.  An  office  table  toith  a  telephone,  uoriting 
materials,  official  papers,  etc.,  is  set  across  the  room. 
At  the  end  of  the  table,  a  comfortable  chair  for  the  General. 
Behind  the  chair,  a  wind&w.  Facing  it  at  the  other  end 
of  the  table,  a  plain  wooden  bench.  At  the  side  of  the 
table,  with  its  back  to  the  door,  a  common  chair,  with  a 
typewriter  before  it.  Beside  the  door,  which  is  opposite 
the  end  of  the  bench,  a  rack  for  caps  and  coats.  There 
is  nobody  in  the  room. 

General  Strammfest  enters,  followed  by  Lieutenant 
Schneidekind.  They  hang  up  their  cloaks  and  caps. 
Schneidekind  takes  a  little  longer  than  Stramrnfest, 
who  comes  to  the  table. 

STRAMMFEST.     Schneidekind. 

SCHNEIDEKIND.      YeS,  SIT. 

STRAMMFEST.  Havc  you  Sent  my  report  yet  to  the 
government  [_he  sits  dovm}. 

SCHNEIDEKIND  [coming  to  the  tabW].  Not  yet,  sir. 
Which  government  do  you  wish  it  sent  to?  {He  sits 
down.'] 

STRAMMFEST.  That  depends.  What's  the  latest? 
Which  of  them  do  you  think  is  most  likely  to  be  in 
power  tomorrow  morning? 

SCHNEIDEKIND.  Well,  the  provisional  government 
was  going  strong  yesterday.    But  today  they  say  that 

277 


278  Annajanska 

the  Prime  minister  has  shot  himself,  and  that  the 
extreme  left  fellow  has  shot  all  the  others. 

STRAMMFEST.  Yes:  that's  all  very  well;  but  these 
fellows  always  shoot  themselves  with  blank  cartridge. 

SCHNEIDEKIND.  Still,  even  the  blank  cartridge  means 
backing  down.  I  should  send  the  report  to  the  Maxi- 
milianists. 

STRAMMFEST.  They're  no  stronger  than  the  Oppido- 
shavians;  and  in  my  own  opinion  the  Moderate  Red 
Revolutionaries  are  as  likely  to  come  out  on  top  as 
either  of  them. 

SCHNEIDEKIND.  I  Can  easily  put  a  few  carbon  sheets 
in  the  typewriter  and  send  a  copy  each  to  the  lot. 

STRAMMFEST.  Wastc  of  paper.  You  might  as  well 
send  reports  to  an  infant  school.  [He  throws  his  head 
on  the  table  vnth  a  groan. 2 

SCHNEIDEKIND.    Tired  out,  sir.? 

STRAMMFEST.  O  Schueidckind,  Schneidekind,  how 
can  you  bear  to  live? 

SCHNEIDEKIND.  At  my  age,  sir,  I  ask  myself  how 
can  I  bear  to  die? 

STRAMMFEST.  You  are  young,  young  and  heartless. 
You  are  excited  by  the  revolution:  you  are  attached 
to  abstract  things  like  liberty.  But  my  family  has 
served  the  Panjandrums  of  Beotia  faithfully  for  seven 
centuries.  The  Panjandrums  have  kept  our  place 
for  us  at  their  courts,  honored  us,  promoted  us,  shed 
their  glory  on  us,  made  us  what  we  are.  When  I  hear 
you  young  men  declaring  that  you  are  fighting  for 
civilization,  for  democracy,  for  the  overthrow  of 
militarism,  I  ask  myself  how  can  a  man  shed  his  blood 
for  empty  words  used  by  vulgar  tradesmen  and  common 
laborers:  mere  wind  and  stink.  [He  rises,  exalted 
by  his  theme.2  A  king  is  a  splendid  reality,  a  man 
raised  above  us  like  a  god.  You  can  see  him;  you 
can  kiss  his  hand;   you  can  be  cheered  by  his  smile 


The  Bolshevik  Empress  279 

and  terrified  by  his  frown.  I  would  have  died  for  my 
Panjandrum  as  my  father  died  for  his  father.  Your 
toiling  millions  were  only  too  honored  to  receive  the 
toes  of  our  boots  in  the  proper  spot  for  them  when 
they  displeased  their  betters.  And  now  what  is  left 
in  life  for  me?  \^He  relapses  into  his  chair  discour- 
aged.'] My  Panjandrum  is  deposed  and  transported 
to  herd  with  convicts.  The  army,  his  pride  and  glory, 
is  paraded  to  hear  seditious  speeches  from  penniless 
rebels,  with  the  colonel  actually  forced  to  take  the 
chair  and  introduce  the  speaker.  I  myself  am  made 
Commander-in-Chief  by  my  own  solicitor:  a  Jew, 
Schneidekind !  a  Hebrew  Jew!  It  seems  only  yester- 
day that  these  things  would  have  been  the  ravings 
of  a  madman:  today  they  are  the  commonplaces  of 
the  gutter  press.  I  live  now  for  three  objects  only: 
to  defeat  the  enemy,  to  restore  the  Panjandrum,  and 
to  hang  my  solicitor. 

SCHNEIDEKIND.  Be  carcful,  sir:  these  are  dangerous 
views  to  utter  nowadays.  What  if  I  were  to  betray 
you? 

STRAMMFEST.     What ! 

SCHNEIDEKIND.  I  wou't,  of  coursc:  my  own  father 
goes  on  just  like  that;  but  suppose  I  did? 

STRAMMFEST  [chuclcling'].  I  should  accuse  you  of 
treason  to  the  Revolution,  my  lad;  and  they  would 
immediately  shoot  you,  unless  you  cried  and  asked 
to  see  your  mother  before  you  died,  when  they  would 
probably  change  their  minds  and  make  you  a  brig- 
adier. Enough.  \_He  rises  and  expands  his  chest.] 
I  feel  the  better  for  letting  myself  go.  To  business. 
[^He  takes  up  a  telegram:  opens  it:  and  is  thunderstruck 
by  its  contents.]  Great  heaven!  \^He  collapses  into 
his  chair.]    This  is  the  worst  blow  of  all. 

SCHNEIDEKIND.  What  has  happened?  Are  we 
beaten? 


280  Annajanska 

STRAMMPEST.  Man,  do  you  think  that  a  mere 
defeat  could  strike  me  down  as  this  news  does:  I, 
who  have  been  defeated  thirteen  times  since  the  war 
began?  O,  my  master,  my  master,  my  Panjandrum! 
[_he  is  convulsed  with  sohs~\. 

SCHNEIDEKIND.    They  have  killed  him? 

STRAMMFEST.  A  dagger  has  been  struck  through 
his  heart  — 

SCHNEIDEKIND.     Good  God! 

STRAMMFEST.    —  and  through  mine,  through  mine. 

SCHNEIDEKIND  [relieved}.  Oh,  a  metaphorical 
dagger!  I  thought  you  meant  a  real  one.  What  has 
happened? 

STRAMMFEST.  His  daughter  the  Grand  Duchess 
Annajanska,  she  whom  the  Panjandrina  loved  beyond 
all  her  other  children,  has  —  has  —  [he  cannot  finish}. 

scHNEiDEiQND.    Committed  suicide? 

STRAMMFEST.  No.  Better  if  she  had.  Oh,  far  far 
better. 

SCHNEIDEKIND  [in  hushcd  tones}.    Left  the  Church? 

STRAMMFEST  [shockecf}.  Certainly  not.  Do  not 
blaspheme,  young  man. 

SCHNEIDEKIND.    Askcd  for  the  vote? 

STRAMMFEST.  I  would  havc  givcu  it  to  her  with 
both  hands  to  save  her  from  this. 

SCHNEIDEKIND.  Savc  her  from  what?  Dash  it,  sir, 
out  with  it. 

STRAMMFEST.    She  has  joined  the  Revolution. 

SCHNEIDEKIND.  But  SO  havc  you,  sir.  We've  all 
joined  the  Revolution.  She  doesn't  mean  it  any  more 
than  we  do. 

STRAMMFEST.  Hcavcn  grant  you  may  be  right! 
But  that  is  not  the  worst.  She  had  eloped  with  a 
young  oflficer.    Eloped,  Schneidekind,  eloped! 

SCHNEIDEKIND  [not  'particularly  impressed}.  Yes, 
sir. 


The  Bolshevik  Empress  281 

STRAMMFEST.  Annajanska,  the  beautiful,  the 
innocent,  my  master's  daughter!  [He  buries  his  face 
in  his  hands.^ 

The  telephone  rings. 

SCHNEIDEKIND  [taking  the  receiver"].  Yes:  G.H.Q. 
Yes.  .  .  .  Don't  bawl:  I'm  not  a  general.  Who  is 
it  speaking?  .  .  .  Why  didn't  you  say  so?  don't 
you  know  your  duty?  Next  time  you  will  lose  your 
stripe.  .  .  .  Oh,  they've  made  you  a  colonel,  have 
they?  Well,  they've  made  me  a  field-marshal:  now 
what  have  you  to  say?  .  .  .  Look  here:  what  did 
you  ring  up  for?  I  can't  spend  the  day  here  listening 
to  your  cheek.  .  .  .  What!  the  Grand  Duchess 
[Strammfest  starts.']    Where  did  you  catch  her? 

STRAMMFEST  [snatching  the  telephone  and  listening 
for  the  answer].  Speak  louder,  will  you:  I  am  a  General 
...  I  know  that,  you  dolt.  Have  you  captured  the 
officer  that  was  with  her?  ....  Damnation!  You 
shall  answer  for  this:  you  let  him  go:  he  bribed  you. 
.  .  .  You  must  have  seen  him:  the  fellow  is  in  the 
full  dress  court  uniform  of  the  Panderobajensky 
Hussars.  I  give  you  twelve  hours  to  catch  him  or 
.  .  .  what's  that  you  say  about  the  devil?  Are  you 
swearing  at  me,  you.  .  .  .  Thousand  thunders! 
[To  Schneidekind.]  The  swine  says  that  the  Grand 
Duchess  is  a  devil  incarnate.  [Into  the  telephone.] 
Filthy  traitor:  is  that  the  way  you  dare  speak  of  the 
daughter  of  our  anointed  Panjandrum?    I'll  — 

SCHNEIDEKIND  [jpulUng  the  telephone  frorm  his  lips]. 
Take  care,  sir. 

STRAMMFEST.  I  won't  take  care:  I'll  have  him  shot. 
Let  go  that  telephone. 

SCHNEIDEKIND.    But  for  her  own  sake,  sir  — 

STRAMMFEST.      Eh? 

SCHNEIDEKIND.  For  her  own  sake  they  had  better 
send  her  here.    She  will  be  safe  in  your  hands. 


282  Annajanska 

STRAMMFEST  \_yielding  the  receiver].  You  are  right. 
Be  civil  to  him.    I  should  choke  [he  sits  down]. 

SCHNEIDEKIND  \_into  the  telephone].  Hullo.  Never 
mind  all  that:  it*s  only  a  fellow  here  who  has  been 
fooling  with  the  telephone.  I  had  to  leave  the  room 
for  a  moment.  Wash  out:  and  send  the  girl  along. 
We'll  jolly  soon  teach  her  to  behave  herself  here.  .  .  . 
Oh,  you've  sent  her  already.  Then  why  the  devil 
didn't  you  say  so,  you  —  [he  hangs  up  the  telephone 
angrily].  Just  fancy:  they  started  her  off  this  morn- 
ing: and  all  this  is  because  the  fellow  likes  to  get  on 
the  telephone  and  hear  himself  talk  now  that  he  is  a 
colonel.  [The  telephone  rings  again.  He  snatches  the 
receiver  furiously.]  What's  the  matter  now?  ...  [To 
the  General.]  It's  our  own  people  downstairs.  [Into 
the  receiver.]  Here!  do  you  suppose  I've  nothing  else 
to  do  than  to  hang  on  to  the  telephone  all  day.f^  .  .  . 
What's  that?  Not  men  enough  to  hold  her!  What 
do  you  mean?    [To  the  General.]    She  is  there,  sir. 

STRAMMFEST.  Tell  them  to  send  her  up.  I  shall 
have  to  receive  her  without  even  rising,  without 
kissing  her  hand,  to  keep  up  appearances  before  the 
escort.    It  will  break  my  heart. 

SCHNEIDEKIND  [into  the  receiver].  Send  her  up. 
.  .  .  Tcha!  [He  hangs  up  the  receiver.]  He  says  she 
is  halfway  up  already:  they  couldn't  hold  her. 

The  Grand  Duchess  bursts  into  the  room,  dragging 
with  her  two  exhausted  soldiers  hanging  on  desperately 
to  her  arms.  She  is  enveloped  from  head  to  foot  by  a 
fur-lined  cloak,  and  wears  a  fur  cap. 

SCHNEIDEKIND  [pointing  to  the  bench].  At  the  word 
Go,  place  your  prisoner  on  the  bench  in  a  sitting 
posture;  and  take  your  seats  right  and  left  of  her. 
Go. 

The  two  soldiers  make  a  supreme  effort  to  force  her 
to  sit  dawn.    She  flings  them  back  so  that  they  are  forced 


The  Bolshevik  Empress  283 

to  sit  on  the  bench  to  save  themselves  from  falling  back- 
wards over  it,  and  is  herself  dragged  into  sitting  between 
them.  The  second  soldier,  holding  on  tight  to  the  Grand 
Duchess  with  one  hand,  produces  papers  with  the  other, 
and  waves  them  towards  Schneidekind,  who  takes  them 
from  him  and  passes  them  on  to  the  General.  He  opens 
them  and  reads  them  with  a  grave  expression. 

SCHNEIDEKIND.  Be  good  enough  to  wait,  prisoner, 
until  the  General  has  read  the  papers  on  your  case. 

THE  GRAND  DUCHESS  [to  the  Soldiers'].  Let  go.  [jTo 
Strammfest~\.  Tell  them  to  let  go,  or  I'll  upset  the 
bench  backwards  and  bash  our  three  heads  on  the 
floor. 

FIRST  SOLDIER.  No,  little  mother.  Have  mercy 
on  the  poor. 

STRAMMFEST  \_growling  over  the  edge  of  the  paper  he 
is  reading].    Hold  your  tongue. 

THE  GRAND  DUCHESS  [blazing].    Me,  or  the  soldier.? 

STRAMMFEST  [horrified].    The  soldier,  madam. 

THE  GRAND  DUCHESS.    Tell  him  to  let  go. 

STRAMMFEST.    Release  the  lady. 

The  soldiers  take  their  hands  off  her.  One  of  them 
wipes  his  fevered  brow.    The  other  sucks  his  wrist. 

SCHNEIDEKIND  [fiercely],    'ttention! 

The  two  soldiers  sit  up  stiffly. 

THE  GRAND  DUCHESS.  Oh,  let  the  poor  man  suck 
his  wrist.    It  may  be  poisoned.    I  bit  it. 

STRAMMFEST  [shockcd^.    You  bit  a  common  soldier! 

GRAND  DUCHESS.  Well,  I  offered  to  cauterize  it 
with  the  poker  in  the  office  stove.  But  he  was  afraid. 
What  more  could  I  do? 

SCHNEIDEKIND.    Why  did  you  bite  him,  prisoner? 

THE  GRAND  DUCHESS.    He  would  not  let  go. 

STRAMMFEST.    Did  he  let  go  when  you  bit  him? 

THE  GRAND  DUCHESS.  No.  [Patting  the  soldier  on 
the  hack].    You  should  give  the  man  a  cross  for  his 


284  Annajanska 

devotion.  I  could  not  go  on  eating  him;  so  I  brought 
him  along  with  me. 

STRAMMFEST.     Prisoner  — 

THE  GRAND  DUCHESS.  Don't  call  me  prisoner. 
General  Strammfest.  My  grandmother  dandled  you 
on  her  knee. 

STRAMMFEST  [bursting  into  tears'].  O  God,  yes. 
Believe  me,  my  heart  is  what  it  was  then. 

THE  GRAND  DUCHESS.  Your  brain  also  is  what  it 
was  then.    I  will  not  be  addressed  by  you  as  prisoner. 

STRAMMFEST.  I  may  not,  for  your  own  sake,  call 
you  by  your  rightful  and  most  sacred  titles.  What  am 
I  to  call  you? 

THE  GRAND  DUCHESS.  The  Revolutiou  has  made  us 
comrades.    Call  me  comrade. 

STRAMMFEST.    I  had  rather  die. 

THE  GRAND  DUCHESS.  Then  Call  me  Annajanska; 
and  I  will  call  you  Peter  Piper,  as  grandmamma  did. 

STRAMMFEST  [painfully  agitated].  Schneidekind,  you 
must  speak  to  her:  I  cannot  —  [he  breaks  dovm]. 

SCHNEIDEKIND  [officially].  The  Republic  of  Beotia 
has  been  compelled  to  confine  the  Panjandrum  and 
his  family,  for  their  own  safety,  within  certain  bounds. 
You  have  broken  those  bounds. 

STRAMMFEST  [taking  the  word  from  him].  You  are  — 
I  must  say  it  —  a  prisoner.  What  am  I  to  do  with 
you? 

THE  GRAND  DUCHESS.  You  should  have  thought  of 
that  before  you  arrested  me. 

STRAMMFEST.  Comc,  comc,  prisoner!  do  you  know 
what  will  happen  to  you  if  you  compel  me  to  take  a 
sterner  tone  with  you? 

THE  GRAND  DUCHESS.  No.  But  I  know  what  will 
happen  to  you. 

STRAMMFEST.    Pray  what,  prisoner? 

THE  GRAND  DUCHESS.    Clergyman's  sore  throat. 


The  Bolshevik  Empress  285 

SchneideJdnd  splutters;  drops  a  paper:  and  conceals 
his  laughter  under  the  table. 

STRAMMFEST  [thunderously].  Lieutenant  Schneide- 
kind. 

SCHNEIDEKIND  [in  a  Stifled  voice'].  Yes,  sir.  [The 
table  vibrates  visibly. ~\ 

STRAMMFEST.  Come  out  of  it,  you  fool:  you're 
upsetting  the  ink. 

Schneidekind  emergesy  red  in  the  face  vdth  suppressed 
mirth. 

STRAMMFEST.  Why  dou't  you  laugh.?  Don't  you 
appreciate  Her  Imperial  Highness's  joke.'* 

SCHNEIDEKIND  [suddenly  becoming  solemn].  I  don't 
want  to,  sir. 

STRAMMFEST.  Laugh  at  once,  sir.  I  order  you  to 
laugh. 

SCHNEIDEKIND  [udth  a  touch  of  temper].  I  really 
can't,  sir.    [He  sits  down  decisively.] 

STRAMMFEST  [growUng  at  hint].  Yah!  [He  turns 
impressively  to  the  Grand  Duchess.]  Your  Imperial 
Highness  desires  me  to  address  you  as  comrade  .f* 

THE  GRAND  DUCHESS  [rising  and  waving  a  red  hand- 
kerchief].   Long  Hve  the  Revolution,  comrade! 

STRAMMFEST  [rising  and  saluting].  Proletarians  of 
all  lands,  unite.  Lieutenant  Schneidekind,  you  will 
rise  and  sing  the  Marseillaise. 

SCHNEIDEKIND  [rising].  But  I  cannot,  sir.  I  have 
no  voice,  no  ear. 

STRAMMFEST.  Then  sit  down;  and  bury  your  shame 
in  your  typewriter.  [Schneidekind  sits  down.]  Com- 
rade Annajanska,  you  have  eloped  with  a  young 
officer. 

THE  GRA*ND  DUCHESS  [astouudcd].  General  Stramm- 
fest,  you  lie. 

STRAMMFEST.  Denial,  comrade,  is  useless.  It  is 
through  that  officer  that  your  movements  have  been 


286  Annajanska 

traced.  [_The  Grand  Duchess  is  suddenly  enlightened, 
and  seems  amused.  Strammfest  continues  in  a  forensic 
manner^  He  joined  you  at  the  Golden  Anchor  in 
Hakonsburg.  You  gave  us  the  slip  there;  but  the 
oflScer  was  traced  to  Potterdam,  where  you  rejoined 
him  and  went  alone  to  Premsylople.  What  have 
you  done  with  that  unhappy  young  man?  Where 
is  he? 

THE  GRAND  DUCHESS  [jpreteuding  to  whisper  an  im- 
portant secret].    Where  he  has  always  been. 

STRAMMFEST  \_eagerly'].    Where  is  that? 

THE  GRAND  DUCHESS  [impetuou^ly].  In  your  ima- 
gination. I  came  alone.  I  am  alone.  Hundreds  of 
oflScers  travel  every  day  from  Hakonsburg  to  Potter- 
dam.    What  do  I  know  about  them? 

STRAMMFEST.  They  travel  in  khaki.  They  do  not 
travel  in  full  dress  court  uniform  as  this  man  did. 

SCHNEIDEKIND.  Only  oflSccrs  who  are  eloping  with 
grand  duchesses  wear  court  uniform:  otherwise  the 
grand  duchesses  could  not  be  seen  with  them. 

STRAMMFEST.  Hold  your  tongue.  \^Schneidekind, 
in  high  dudgeon^  folds  his  arms  and  retires  from  the 
conversation.  The  General  returns  to  his  paper  and  to  his 
examination  of  the  Grand  Duchess.']  This  officer 
travelled  with  yoiu*  passport.  What  have  you  to 
say  to  that? 

THE  GRAND  DUCHESS.  Bosh!  How  could  a  man 
travel  with  a  woman's  passport? 

STRAMMFEST.  It  is  quitc  simple,  as  you  very  well 
know.  A  dozen  travellers  arrive  at  the  boundary. 
The  official  collects  their  passports.  He  counts  twelve 
persons;  then  counts  the  passports.  If  there  are 
twelve,  he  is  satisfied. 

THE  GRAND  DUCHESS.  Then  how  do  you  know  that 
one  of  the  passports  was  mine? 

STRAMMFEST.     A  waiter  at  the  Potterdam  Hotel 


The  Bolshevik  Empress  287 

looked  at  the  officer's  passport  when  he  was  in  his 
bath.    It  was  your  passport. 

THE  GRAND  DUCHESS.  Stuff!  Why  did  he  not  have 
me  arrested.'^ 

STRAMMFEST.  When  the  waiter  returned  to  the 
hotel  with  the  poUce  the  officer  had  vanished;  and 
you  were  there  with  your  own  passport.  They  knouted 
him. 

THE  GRAND  DUCHESS.  Oh!  Strammfcst,  send  these 
men  away.    I  must  speak  to  you  alone. 

STRAMMFEST  [Hsing  in  horror].  No:  this  is  the  last 
straw:  I  cannot  consent.  It  is  impossible,  utterly, 
eternally  impossible,  that  a  daughter  of  the  Imperial 
House  should  speak  to  any  one  alone,  were  it  even  her 
own  husband. 

THE  GRAND  DUCHESS.  You  forget  that  there  is  an 
exception.  She  may  speak  to  a  child  alone.  [She 
rises.']  Strammfest,  you  have  been  dandled  on  my 
grandmother's  knee.  By  that  gracious  action  the 
dowager  Panjandrina  made  you  a  child  forever.  So 
did  Nature,  by  the  way.  I  order  you  to  speak  to  me 
alone.  Do  you  hear?  I  order  you.  For  seven  hundred 
years  no  member  of  your  family  has  ever  disobeyed 
an  order  from  a  member  of  mine.  Will  you  disobey 
me? 

STRAMMFEST.  There  is  an  alternative  to  obedience. 
The  dead  cannot  disobey.  {He  takes  out  his  pistol 
and  places  the  muzzle  against  his  temple.] 

SCHNEIDEKIND  [snotching  the  pistol  from  him].  For 
God's  sake.  General  — 

STRAMMFEST  [attacking  him  furiously  to  recover  the 
weapon].  Dog  of  a  subaltern,  restore  that  pistol 
and  my  honor. 

SCHNEIDEKIND  [reaching  out  with  the  pistol  to  the 
Grand  Duchess].  Take  it:  quick:  he  is  as  strong  as  a 
bull. 


288  Annajanska 

THE  GRAND  DUCHESS  [^snatching  it].  Aha!  Leave 
the  room,  all  of  you  except  the  General.  At  the  double ! 
lightning !  electricity !  \_She  fires  shot  after  shot,  spatter- 
ing the  bullets  about  the  ankles  of  the  soldiers.  They 
fly  precipitately.  She  turns  to  Schneidekind,  who  has 
by  this  time  been  flung  on  the  floor  by  the  General.']  You 
too.  \^He  scrambles  up.]  March.  [He  flies  to  the 
door.] 

SCHNEIDEKIND  [tuming  at  the  door].  For  your  own 
sake,  comrade  — 

THE  GRAND  DVCHB^s [indignantly].  Comrade!  YouV.l 
Go.    [She  fires  two  more  shots.    He  vanishes.] 

STRAMMFEST  [making  an  impulsive  movement  towards 
her].    My  Imperial  Mistress  — 

THE  GRAND  DUCHESS.  Stop.  I  have  onc  bullet 
left,  if  you  attempt  to  take  this  from  me  [putting  the 
pistol  to  her  temple]. 

STRAMMFEST  [recoiling,  and  covering  his  eyes  with 
his  hands].  No  no:  put  it  down:  put  it  down.  I 
promise  everything:  I  swear  anything;  but  put  it 
down,  I  implore  you. 

THE  GRAND  DUCHESS  [throwing  it  on  the  table].    There ! 

STRAMMFEST  [uncovcring  his  eyes].    Thank  God! 

THE  GRAND  DUCHESS  [gently].  Strammfest:  I  am 
your  comrade.    Am  I  nothing  more  to  you? 

STRAMMFEST  [falling  on  his  knee].  You  are,  God 
help  me,  all  that  is  left  to  me  of  the  only  power  I 
recognize  on  earth  [he  kisses  her  hand]. 

THE  GRAND  DUCHESS  [indulgently].  Idolater!  When 
will  you  learn  that  our  strength  has  never  been  in  our- 
selves, but  in  your  illusions  about  us.f^  [She  shakes  off 
her  kindliness,  and  sits  down  in  his  chair.]  Now  tell 
me,  what  are  your  orders?  And  do  you  mean  to  obey 
them? 

STRAMMFEST  [starting  like  a  goaded  ox,  and  blunder- 
ing fretfully  about  the  room].     How  can  I  obey  six 


The  Bolshevik  Empress  289 

different  dictators,  and  not  one  gentleman  among  the 
lot  of  them?  One  of  them  orders  me  to  make  peace 
with  the  foreign  enemy.  Another  orders  me  to  offer 
all  the  neutral  countries  48  hours  to  choose  between 
adopting  his  views  on  the  single  tax  and  being  instantly 
invaded  and  annihilated.  A  third  orders  me  to  go  to 
a  damned  Socialist  Conference  and  explain  that  Beotia 
will  allow  no  annexations  and  no  indemnities,  and 
merely  wishes  to  establish  the  Kindgom  of  Heaven  on 
Earth  throughout  the  universe.  [He  finishes  behind 
Schneidekind's  chair.'] 

THE  GRAND  DUCHESS.    Damn  their  trifling! 

STRAMMFEST.  I  thank  Your  Imperial  Highness 
from  the  bottom  of  my  heart  for  that  expression. 
Europe  thanks  you. 

THE  GRAND  DUCHESS.  M'yes;  but  —  [rising], 
Strammfest,  you  know  that  your  cause  —  the  cause 
of  the  dynasty  —  is  lost. 

STRAMMFEST.  You  must  uot  Say  so.  It  is  treason, 
even  from  you.  [He  sinks^  discouraged^  into  the  chair, 
and  covers  his  face  vnth  his  hand.] 

THE  GRAND  DUCHESS.  Do  uot  dcccive  yourself. 
General:  never  again  will  a  Panjandrum  reign  in 
Beotia.  [She  walks  slowly  across  the  room^  brooding 
bitterly^  and  thinking  aloud.]  We  are  so  decayed,  so 
out  of  date,  so  feeble,  so  wicked  in  our  own  despite, 
that  we  have  come  at  last  to  will  our  own  destruction. 

STRAMMFEST.    You  are  uttering  blasphemy. 

THE  GRAND  DUCHESS.  All  great  truths  begin  as 
blasphemies.  All  the  king's  horses  and  all  the  king's 
men  cannot  set  up  my  father's  throne  again.  If  they 
could,  you  would  have  done  it,  would  you  not? 

STRAMMFEST.      God  kuOWS  I  WOuld! 

THE  GRAND  DUCHESS.  You  really  mean  that?  You 
would  keep  the  people  in  their  hopeless  squalid  misery? 
you  would  fill  those  infamous  prisons  again  with  the 


290  Annajanska 

noblest  spirits  in  the  land?  you  would  thrust  the  rising 
sun  of  liberty  back  into  the  sea  of  blood  from  which 
it  has  risen?  And  all  because  there  was  in  the  middle 
of  the  dirt  and  ugliness  and  horror  a  little  patch  of 
court  splendor  in  which  you  could  stand  with  a  few 
orders  on  your  uniform,  and  yawn  day  after  day  and 
night  after  night  in  unspeakable  boredom  until  your 
grave  yawned  wider  still,  and  you  fell  into  it  because 
you  had  nothing  better  to  do.  How  can  you  be  so 
stupid,  so  heartless? 

STRAMMFEST.  You  must  be  mad  to  think  of  royalty 
in  such  a  way.  I  never  yawned  at  court.  The  dogs 
yawned;  but  that  was  because  they  were  dogs:  they 
had  no  imagination,  no  ideals,  no  sense  of  honor  and 
dignity  to  sustain  them. 

THE  GRAND  DUCHESS.  My  poor  Strammfcst:  you 
were  not  often  enough  at  court  to  tire  of  it.  You 
were  mostly  soldiering;  and  when  you  came  home 
to  have  a  new  order  pinned  on  your  breast,  your  happi- 
ness came  through  looking  at  my  father  and  mother  and 
at  me,  and  adoring  us.    Was  that  not  so? 

STRAMMFEST.  Do  you  rcproach  me  with  it?  I 
am  not  ashamed  of  it. 

THE  GRAND  DUCHESS.  Oh,  it  was  all  Very  well  for 
you,  Strammfest.  But  think  of  me,  of  me!  standing 
there  for  you  to  gape  at,  and  knowing  that  I  was  no 
goddess,  but  only  a  girl  like  any  other  girl!  It  was 
cruelty  to  animals:  you  could  have  stuck  up  a  wax 
doll  or  a  golden  calf  to  worship;  it  would  not  have  been 
bored. 

STRAMMFEST.  Stop;  or  I  shall  renounce  my  alle- 
giance to  you.  I  have  had  women  flogged  for  such 
seditious  chatter  as  this. 

THE  GRAND  DUCHESS.  Do  uot  provokc  me  to 
send  a  bullet  through  your  head  for  reminding  me 
of  it. 


The  Bolshevik  Empress  291 

STBAMMFEST.  You  always  had  low  tastes.  You  are 
no  true  daughter  of  the  Panjandrums:  you  are  a 
changeling,  thrust  into  the  Panjandrina's  bed  by 
some  profligate  nurse.  I  have  heard  stories  of  your 
childhood:  of  how  — 

THE  GRAND  DUCHESS.  Ha,  ha!  Ycs:  they  took  me  to 
the  circus  when  I  was  a  child.  It  was  my  first  moment 
of  happiness,  my  first  glimpse  of  heaven.  I  ran  away 
and  joined  the  troupe.  They  caught  me  and  dragged 
me  back  to  my  gilded  cage;  but  I  had  tasted  free- 
dom; and  they  never  could  make  me  forget  it. 

STRAMMFEST.  Freedom!  To  be  the  slave  of  an 
acrobat!  to  be  exhibted  to  the  public!  to  — 

THE  GRAND  DUCHESS.  Oh,  I  was  trained  to  that.  I 
had  learnt  that  part  of  the  business  at  court. 

STRAMMFEST.  You  had  uot  bccu  taught  to  strip 
yourself  half  naked  and  turn  head  over  heels  — 

THE  GRAND  DUCHESS.  Man,  I  Wanted  to  get  rid 
of  my  swaddling  clothes  and  turn  head  over  heels. 
I  wanted  to,  I  wanted  to,  I  wanted  to.  I  can  do  it 
still.    Shall  I  do  it  now? 

STRAMMFEST.  If  you  do,  I  swcar  I  will  throw  my- 
self from  the  window  so  that  I  may  meet  your  parents 
in  heaven  without  having  my  medals  torn  from  my 
breast  by  them. 

THE  GRAND  DUCHESS.  Oh,  you  are  incorrigible. 
You  are  mad,  infatuated.  You  will  not  believe  that 
we  royal  divinities  are  mere  common  flesh  and  blood 
even  when  we  step  down  from  our  pedestals  and  tell 
you  ourselves  what  a  fool  you  are.  I  will  argue  no 
more  with  you:  I  will  use  my  power.  At  a  word  from 
me  your  men  will  turn  against  you:  already  haK  of 
them  do  not  salute  you;  and  you  dare  not  punish 
them:  you  have  to  pretend  not  to  notice  it. 

STRAMMFEST.  It  is  not  for  you  to  taunt  me  with 
that  if  it  is  so. 


292  Annajanska 

THE  GRAND  DUCHESS,  [haughtily^.  Taunt!  I  con- 
descend to  taunt!  To  taunt  a  common  General! 
You  forget  yourself,  sir. 

STRAMMFEST  [^dropping  on  his  knee  submissively^* 
Now  at  last  you  speak  like  your  royal  self. 

THE  GRAND  DUCHESS.  Oh,  Strammfest,  Strammfest, 
they  have  driven  your  slavery  into  your  very  bones. 
Why  did  you  not  spit  in  my  face.'^. 

STRAMMFEST  [rising  with  a  shudder}.    God  forbid! 

THE  GRAND  DUCHESS.  Well,  siuce  you  will  be  my 
slave,  take  your  orders  from  me.  I  have  not  come 
here  to  save  our  wretched  family  and  our  bloodstained 
crown.    I  am  come  to  save  the  Revolution. 

STRAMMFEST.  Stupid  as  I  am,  I  have  come  to  think 
that  I  had  better  save  that  than  save  nothing.  But 
what  will  the  Revolution  do  for  the  people?  Do  not 
be  deceived  by  the  fine  speeches  of  the  revolutionary 
leaders  and  the  pamphlets  of  the  revolutionary  writers. 
How  much  liberty  is  there  where  they  have  gained  the 
upper  hand?  Are  they  not  hanging,  shooting,  im- 
prisoning as  much  as  ever  we  did?  Do  they  ever  tell 
the  people  the  truth?  No:  if  the  truth  does  not  suit 
them  they  spread  lies  instead,  and  make  it  a  crime 
to  tell  the  truth. 

THE  GRAND  DUCHESS.  Of  coursc  they  do.  Why 
should  they  not? 

STRAMMFEST  [hardly  able  to  believe  his  ears'].  Why 
should  they  not? 

THE  GRAND  DUCHESS.  Ycs!  why  should  they  not? 
We  did  it.  You  did  it,  whip  in  hand:  you  flogged 
women  for  teaching  children  to  read. 

STRAMMFEST.  To  read  sedition.  To  read  Karl 
Marx. 

THE  GRAND  DUCHESS.  Pshaw!  How  could  they 
learn  to  read  the  Bible  without  learning  to  read  Karl 
Marx?     Why  do  you  not  stand  to  your  guns  and 


The  Bolshevik  Empress  293 

justify  what  you  did,  instead  of  making  silly  excuses? 
Do  you  suppose  I  think  flogging  a  woman  worse  than 
flogging  a  man?    I,  who  am  a  woman  myself! 

STRAMMFEST.  I  am  at  a  loss  to  understand  your 
Imperial  Highness.  You  seem  to  me  to  contradict 
yourself. 

THE  GRAND  DUCHESS.  Nonscnsc!  I  Say  that  if  the 
people  cannot  govern  themselves,  they  must  be  gov- 
erned by  somebody.  If  they  will  not  do  their  duty 
without  being  half  forced  and  half  humbugged,  some- 
body must  force  them  and  humbug  them.  Some 
energetic  and  capable  minority  must  always  be  in 
power.  Well,  I  am  on  the  side  of  the  energetic  mi- 
nority whose  principles  I  agree  with.  The  Revolution 
is  as  cruel  as  we  were;  but  its  aims  are  my  aims. 
Therefore  I  stand  for  the  Revolution. 

STRAMMFEST.  You  do  uot  know  what  you  are 
saying.  This  is  pure  Bolshevism.  Are  you,  the 
daughter  of  a  Panjandrum,  a  Bolshevist? 

THE  GRAND  DUCHESS.  I  am  anything  that  will 
make  the  world  less  like  a  prison  and  more  like  a 
circus. 

STRAMMFEST.  Ah!  You  stiU  Want  to  be  a  circus 
star. 

THE  GRAND  DUCHESS.  Ycs,  and  be  billed  as  the 
Bolshevik  Empress.  Nothing  shall  stop  me.  You 
have  your  orders,  Greneral  Strammfest:  save  the 
Revolution. 

STRAMMFEST.  What  Revolution?  Which  Revolu- 
tion? No  two  of  your  rabble  of  revolutionists  mean 
the  same  thing  by  the  Revolution  What  can  save  a 
mob  in  which  every  man  is  rushing  in  a  different 
direction? 

THE  GRAND  DUCHESS.  I  will  tell  you.  The  war  can 
save  it. 

STRAMMFEST.    The  War? 


294  Annajanska 

THE  GRAND  DUCHESS.  Yes,  the  War.  Only  a  great 
common  danger  and  a  great  common  duty  can  unite 
us  and  weld  these  wrangling  factions  into  a  solid 
commonwealth. 

STRAMMFEST.  Bravo!  War  sets  everything  right: 
I  have  always  said  so.  But  what  is  a  united  people 
without  a  united  army?  And  what  can  /do?  I 
am  only  a  soldier.  I  cannot  make  speeches:  I  have 
won  no  victories:  they  will  not  rally  to  my  call  [jagain 
he  sinks  into  his  chair  with  his  farmer  gesture  of  dis- 
couragement^. 

THE  GRAND  DUCHESS.  Are  you  surc  they  will  not 
rally  to  mine? 

STRAMMFEST.  Oh,  if  Only  you  were  a  man  and  a 
soldier ! 

THE  GRAND  DUCHESS.  Supposc  I  find  you  SL  man 
and  a  soldier? 

STRAMMFEST  [rising  in  a  fury}.  Ah!  the  scoundrel 
you  eloped  with!  You  think  you  will  shove  this 
fellow  into  an  army  command,  over  my  head. 
Never. 

THE  GRAND  DUCHESS.  You  promised  everything. 
You  swore  anything.  [She  marches  as  if  in  front  of  a 
regiment^  I  know  that  this  man  alone  can  rouse  the 
army  to  enthusiasm. 

STRAMMFEST.  Delusiou!  Folly!  He  is  somc  circus 
acrobat;  and  you  are  in  love  with  him. 

THE  GRAND  DUCHESS.  I  swcar  I  am  not  in  love  with 
him.    I  swear  I  will  never  marry  him. 

STRAMMFEST.    Then  who  is  he? 

THE  GRAND  DUCHESS.  Anybody  in  the  world  but 
you  would  have  guessed  long  ago.  He  is  under  you 
very  eyes. 

STRAMMFEST  \_staring  'past  her  right  and  left~\.    Where? 

THE  GRAND  DUCHESS.    Look  out  of  the  window. 

He  rushes  to  the  loindow,  looking  for  the  officer.    The 


The  Bolshevik  Empress  295 

Grand  Duchess  takes  off  her  cloak  and  appears  in  the 
uniform  of  the  Pander obajensky  Hussars. 

STRAMMFEST  [peering  through  the  udndoio}.  Where 
is  he?    I  can  see  no  one. 

THE  GRAND  DUCHESS.    Here,  slUy. 

STRAMMFEST  [tuming^*  You!  Great  Heavens! 
The  Bolshevik  Empress! 


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